


on open wounds and counterpart

by catpoop



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Developing Relationship, M/M, Mild Gore, Sheith Big Bang 2017, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2019-01-05 21:54:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12198138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catpoop/pseuds/catpoop
Summary: Shiro is a bounty hunter, and Keith is his next target.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Seven months of work has gone into this, and well, I guess I should be proud that it's finally complete. Please be kind in the comments.
> 
> Thank you very much to: Paintstrokes for beta'ing, my artist Zenthisoror for their amazing work ([here](http://zenthisoror.tumblr.com/post/165773462186/for-swummeng-geys-whose-sheith-big-bang-2017)), and to the Sheith Loves You Baby discord server for their support. And of course to Robert @caustically for organising the event.

The creature in front of him is a stark red behemoth on the undisturbed landscape. Despite the nausea churning low in his gut, Shiro steps closer, holding his breath as the dragon lies motionless. Each exhale shakes the thick scaly hide scarred with the evidence of previous battles. Shiro wonders how many unfortunate citizens the village has already sent to try and slay the beast.

It’s not _only_ the large bounty that’s urged to him to step so close to the slumbering mountain of a dragon, but the fact that the town will finally be free from the creature’s rampages. He’s already witnessed one since his arrival a month ago. And he’s grown close to the town since then, though not the people. His right hand glints dully, a sneering reminder of his self-imposed isolation.

The dragon huffs again, still in the throes of a dream. 

Once Shiro has stealthily navigated what felt like miles, he can finally see the monstrous head and not merely the scaly expanse of its massive body. He’s only ever heard of dragons in tales, never truly imagining the sheer size and bulk – of the spiny column of its neck, the half-folded wings that could stretch to cover houses, and closed eyelids that Shiro is terrified to see open. With eyeballs the size of his head, any attempt at hiding or fleeing is impossible.

He needs to strike – before the creature wakes up.

Dispelling images of being torn to pieces by massive hooked talons or sharp teeth, Shiro takes a deep breath. Adrenaline and giddy terror are enough to jolt his right hand into action, surface lighting up in a muted glow of purple. The sight no longer startles him into frozen horror, and the quiet hum readies him for attack.

With a violent swing, Shiro launches his curled fist at the junction of the dragon’s neck, where the smaller scales should be easier to pierce. Shiro’s heard stories of the countless spears and swords that bounced off its tough armour, but he doesn’t hesitate, steeling himself for the familiar sizzle as overheated hand meets flesh.

The dragon cracks open a distraught eye.

The layer of scales blackens and warps with ease, but Shiro hardly notices the smoke or resultant smell, punching through until he meets unprotected muscle. The creature cries in anger, thrashing its head as it staggers awake.

Beasts the size of mountains aren’t built to move fast, so Shiro has the time to secure a slippery fist around one of the dragon’s horns before it spots him and scorches him into the ground. He reaches for the knife in his belt as the dragon rises to its feet, twisting and shaking its head in confusion.

He’s thrown off in seconds.

From the ground, the towering creature is terrifying. Blood accumulates in a puddle at its feet from the sputtering wound on its neck. Panicking, Shiro scrambles to get upright, aware of how the monstrous, purple eyes are tracking his every movement. He takes a cautious step backwards when the dragon lumbers towards him, swaying its ugly head as though trying to shake off fleas.

Lucky he’d gotten that first hit in, and deep. The dragon looks disoriented, barely dodging Shiro’s violent hack at its nearest leg. He tries again, and the creature stumbles to the ground with a pained roar.

Sucking in an acrid breath, Shiro steels himself before clambering up the downed creature, avoiding the scales slippery with blood. He nearly trips and falls half a dozen times, if it weren’t for his hand that saves him. With a wild swing, Shiro grasps at nothing on the dragon’s spiny surface, and the monster beneath him gurgles in pain. 

Another wrist-deep wound, and another artery hit.

For all its size and terrifying appearance, the dragon is yet another mortal creature, and several more uncoordinated stabs at its neck downs the beast. Shiro tumbles to the ground as the dragon lets out a tortured noise, face a horrific rictus.

The last few minutes had slowed to a suffocating halt, but with each furious swipe of soiled hands on trousers, Shiro feels air re-enter his lungs. He wearily surveys the destruction before him through the film of sweat and grime dripping from his brow.

The dragon is not yet still, heaving and shaking as the last threads of life are wrung from its body, as if fitfully trying to fall asleep. He can't pinpoint the exact moment life leaves the felled creature, but Shiro doesn’t miss the tangible shift in the atmosphere. 

A sudden whoosh of purple rises up, and he stumbles back in shock.

Every instinct is screaming for him to run away from whichever pit of Hell has just opened up, but Shiro can't move, gaping at familiar purplish smoke as it engulfs the dragon's body. Memories of what happened to his hand float to the surface of his mind, but Shiro ignores them when the creature silently blurs and – disappears. 

Suddenly, there's nothing before him aside from a dense patch of flattened grass and the faintest wisps of purple curling away into the sky. Except – _nothing_ isn't exactly correct. Shiro catches sight of a pale arm and rushes forwards in horror to see a curled-up foetal figure, all unmarred skin except for the bloody gashes in his neck and leg. 

The same wounds as the dragon.

Shaking himself, Shiro focuses on the figure bleeding out before him. The very _human_ boy makes another gurgling noise, bleeding from his neck. 

Swallowed by a sudden panic, Shiro sheds his jacket and tears a length of fabric from the sleeve of his tunic. The fabric is flimsy and quickly soaked through by the open wound, but the makeshift tourniquet is better than nothing. Shiro clamps a hand over the boy’s neck and drapes him in the thick material. He unsteadily gets to his feet with his new companion cradled in both arms.

The adrenaline he’d been running on flushes out of his system in a rapid wave of weariness, and he staggers, gauging the distance to the town.

… Far. 

Far when the daunting idea of taking down the dragon appeared in his mind, and far now that the boy needs immediate help.

The sun burns hot on his scalp and the limp weight drags at his arms, forcing Shiro to a stop before he’s reached the bare fringes of the town. The buildings a long walk ahead blur into obscurity, and Shiro scans the grasslands for any help he can find.

A small brown structure catches his eye. A shack, perhaps. The building lies between himself and the town, so Shiro trudges desperately forwards, ignoring the painful ache in his legs and every lifeless bounce of the boy’s head until he can pound on the ajar door.

“Please! Please help – I need –”

“What is it that you need?” A pair of welcoming hands steady his shoulders before he can collapse to the ground.

\-----

When Keith wakes up, he's confused. The ceiling above him is threateningly close and a sight he hasn’t seen for decades. Just as he's about to thrash and roar – his usual response to distress – he sees a human off to the side, peering at something in her arms. Her lips move, though Keith can hardly make out the words for the panic clogging his ears. He twists his head, trying to discern what kind of trap the humans have him caught in this time, only to see – a table.

He's laid atop a table, beside a fenced-off area filled with barrels and buckets and other indistinct paraphernalia. 

He blinks, confused, when a giant hand appears in his vision, reaching for his head.

_No!_

He gnashes his teeth in a panic, snapping at the man suddenly advancing into his personal space.

“Steady now, steady now! We’re not a wild animal, are we?”

_Yes I am,_ Keith wants to reply, _and that’s why you want to tie me down and kill me._

Desperate to flee the clutches of his captors, Keith tears at imaginary ropes – only to realise all his limbs are free. He makes a guttural noise, reaching out with claws to gouge and maim. 

A human hand shakily moves into view, and Keith chokes on a swoop of bewilderment when the hand – _his hand_ – is gently forced back down. The sensation of a warm hand closing on his wrist feels as real as the pain lancing through his body and Keith gapes, slack-jawed.

“Please calm down – you’re just barely recovering! Now if you’ll lie still for a moment, young man, while I fetch a familiar face.”

The man disappears as Keith shakily lifts both hands to his face. Pale, scarred, and crooked, but distinctly human. The spark of a nerve in his brain bends a shaky finger and Keith lowers the alien appendage to his clammy face, feeling smooth skin and hair and parted lips.

Startled by approaching footsteps, Keith accidentally slaps himself with a limp hand. He grimaces at the stranger that comes into view, only to realise he recognises the man.

Keith’s face twists into a hissing scowl as his attacker pauses beside him.

“H – hello. You’re at a farrier’s, and thankfully they had a lady here who knows healing spells – she just about brought you back to life! Are you feeling okay?” The man runs a stiff hand through damp hair. “Um – that’s their workbench you’re on, so if you’re well enough to move, we can –”

He coughs awkwardly as the enthusiastic man from before joins in.

“Don’t worry! It’s not every day we get a human patient, and we can make do with a stool for now.”

He disappears out of sight, presumably with said stool, and Keith blinks furiously. The sudden overexposure to humans is wrecking his nerves and he struggles to comprehend a word. 

Pain forces him to stay still and silent, but it heightens his senses until the ceiling overhead and the bordering fences creep suffocatingly inwards. Keith gags, struggling to breathe.

“-ey! Hey!” A warm hand touches his shoulder. “Don’t panic, okay? I’ll explain everything soon, but for now, please rest.”

Keith chokes on an answer and thrashes his head. Explain _now_ , he pleads with his eyes, wanting to return to his cave and his grassy field even though becoming human again had been a long-awaited dream.

But the man doesn’t explain any further, standing beside him until he sinks fitfully into sleep, an insistent tingle of magic down his spine dragging at his eyelids.

\-----

When he wakes again, the same wooden ceiling greets him, and Keith blinks rapidly, reorienting himself in the strange new reality he’s entered. He turns his head, trying to figure out what had woken him in the first place.

Keith comes face to face with his attacker’s dark eyes – peering in concern – and a large hand gently shaking him.

“Ah – you’re awake. Sorry, we really need to leave; the farrier’s busy and we’re in the way.”

He doesn’t wait for Keith to reply before easing him into an upright position and sliding him from the tabletop towards a broad chest. Keith hadn’t noticed just how small he’d become, but being cradled against the man’s chest while his feet settle boneless on the ground is a sharp reality check.

He’s capable of walking by himself, certainly, but blood rushes dizzy to his head and a firm arm winds around his waist. Keith allows himself to be manhandled away from the building without protest.

The journey to wherever the man is taking him drags on and on, navigating through crowds of people and odours and noise. He presses a face to the scratchy tunic by his cheek and lets the other guide him.

\-----

He hears a quiet rumble. “Welcome home.”

The word ‘home’ summons images of the cave he sheltered in every night and the grassy expanse outside, abandoned by most creatures with the arrival of a dragon. He remembers flapping his new wings in a panic, desperate to get away from his hometown and crash-landing, weakened by lethargy and ruthless projectiles. 

Keith looks up to see a modest wooden building, decorated with mismatched windows, a crooked door, and a few stray plants rooting on the roof.

Nothing like the places he’d called home, but he follows the man in anyway, unable to be concerned about what might be lurking inside. His injuries throb with a steady pulsing; the wound on his leg feeling worse for wear after trip through town, and all Keith wants is to lie back down.

Inside is a sparsely-decorated living area. A table, a few chairs, and a fireplace clutter up the main room. He’s set down in one of the rickety chairs, and Keith slumps against the wooden frame, craving sleep despite the racket in his brain.

He watches silently as his host disappears into a side room and returns with mugs of something.

“Tea?”

Keith sips at the offered mug, suddenly aware of his parched throat. The tea eases some of the pain, and he musters up his first words in a long, long time.

“W-What happened? Who – ?”

“I’m Shiro. I – ah – found you injured on a field. And brought you to the nearest healer for help. Apparently your heart stopped – though you’re fine now. With more rest.”

Keith narrows his eyes. “No, y-you hurt –” He doubles over with a painful cough and Shiro reaches out to steady the mug in his hand.

_You hurt me_ , he wants to say. _You injured me, and now you want to help?_

But he’s hit with a sudden chilling realisation – if Shiro knows he’s the dragon, then he’ll finish off the job without hesitation. Keith stares warily as Shiro gestures at him.

“No, _you’re_ hurt – ” 

The words disappear into buzzing when he focuses on Shiro’s hand, noticing for the first time the grey texture of it, rock-like and solid. He stares, even more confused.

Quintessence poisoning, engulfing half of his arm. Keith recognises the signs from a mile away.

Seeing his curiosity, Shiro makes a querying noise. Keith ignores him, eyes scanning the deformed limb and thinking back to all who he’s seen subjected to quintessence poisoning, in a past lifetime.

The toxin eats up flesh, rapidly consuming a grown adult whole. And only a druid would be able to prevent death. But there aren’t any Galran druids experimenting on people in this village – there can’t be.

He looks back up at Shiro and into his perplexed gaze.

“W-What ... is that?” Keith points crudely at the affected hand.

Shiro startles, hand clenching into a defensive fist.

“An accident. I touched something I shouldn't have.”

_Obviously_. Whatever quintessence-tainted object it was shouldn’t have come into contact with humans in the first place. The man before him must be foolish, but if he managed to take down a dragon…

Keith remembers searing heat in his neck, unlike crude spears and arrows or any mild poisons concocted by witch doctors. Living as a dragon had quickly reduced humans to fleas, so the way in which Shiro strikes terror into his heart is – unexpected. 

Nothing crafted in the village can pierce his dragonskin, so the man either wields his hand as efficiently as a weapon, or is a Galra agent sent to kill him. Even if they have no reason to do so.

And a human weaponising quintessence … Keith’s only seen it once, sat safely outside a cage with the rest of his class and observing the man injected with quintessence before them, mutated and angry and lashing out in glowing purple arcs.

But that human had gone berserk with pain and quickly collapsed in a heap, lying motionless before a disappointed class.

The one beside him is conscious enough to talk and walk, and Keith hates to think what a quintessence-charged arm could do to his armour.

_Oh_ – the wound in his neck, of course.

Shiro abruptly pulls a glove over his hand, visibly discomforted by Keith’s staring.

“Do you want to rest? I’ll wake you up for dinner.”

Keith nods cautiously.

\-----

The change of clothes fit him poorly, but the wet cloth wipes decades of living inhuman and hunted off his skin. Keith falls promptly asleep.

\-----

“Do you remember what happened?”

The question is abrupt, cutting through the fake domesticity they’ve established, Shiro ladling up stew and Keith staring at his plate. Throbbing pain in his neck forces him to take slow, shallow, breaths, and he barely registers Shiro’s voice.

“Hn.”

“Do you? You appeared suddenly – from?” 

He scans Shiro’s face, seeing polite expectation – but Keith refuses to answer his question. There’s more to Shiro’s side of the story than he’s letting on, so Keith refuses to cooperate.

Keith remembers pain, shock, and succumbing to the human’s attack. He doesn’t recall transforming and being reborn human, but he can surmise why it happened. And for the cold-blooded killer to ‘rescue’ him from Death’s cradle …

Keith shakes his head. “I don’t remember anything.”

It takes another day of rest and recuperation before Keith finally begins to feel accustomed to his human body. He wakes to scratchy blankets and straw poking his behind, the bed far more comfortable than any field he’s lain on.

Despite Shiro’s hospitality, offering up food and shelter, Keith can’t help but keep a wary distance, hyperaware of the _hand_ whenever it’s in sight.

He finally snaps after day two of Shiro treading around the cause of his injury and concealing his hand beneath a glove.

“Tell me what happened. All of it.”

“I – I told you already, right? A field –”

Keith scoffs. “There’s more to it and we both know that. _Tell me_.”

“Mm…” Shiro hums in a noncommittal way. “At least tell me your name first?”

“Keith.”

“Keith – I was responding to the bounty to take down the nearby dragon. And I thought the creature had died, but you appeared. You were injured, so I had to get you to help.”

Acting the part of the dragon-slaying hero, Keith grimaces.“How did you kill a dragon? With your _hand_?” He asks, voice mocking. No one in the village dared attack him after the first dozen deaths. A lazy swing of the tail and they’d be swatted away like flies, after all.

“I –” Shiro hesitates, cornered. He freezes for a second before pulling the glove off his right hand. “I haven’t told anyone in town the truth, but I suppose… Please don’t spread this around?”

Keith nods once in affirmation, sitting up straighter to look at Shiro.

Suddenly, and without warning, the hand before him lights up in a thrum of energy, a familiar shade of purple illuminating the room. 

Keith flinches hard. 

He reflexively flings himself backwards, chair teetering as he falls flat on the floor. The sharp stabbing sensation in his neck forces an embarrassing noise out of him and Shiro quickly extinguishes his hand, chagrined.

“I’m so sorry – I didn’t think –”

“Just explain the hand,” Keith mutters, wincing in pain as Shiro pulls him to his feet. 

“Okay,” Shiro starts, and despite himself, Keith leans forward, curiosity piqued. “This happened about two months ago…”

\-----

The explosion is loud enough to startle Shiro and his entire flock of sheep, sending a dark plume of smoke skywards. Scrambling to his feet, Shiro throws aside all of his common sense and responsibility as he rushes towards the source of the explosion.

Out in the middle of nowhere, the commotion goes largely unnoticed. 

The forest is empty as Shiro picks his way through the patch of trees, and he’s the only one who sees the eerie purple boulder, shrouded in smoke.

A subtle glowing lures him forward to crouch precariously close to the smouldering rock. Shiro’s halting breaths are loud in the silence of the forest, but not enough to mask the subtle hiss of smoke and the ebbing thrum of energy.

Despite the earlier explosion still echoing in his ears and the sinister scene in front of him, Shiro reaches out a tentative hand. His fingertips barely graze the smooth surface before he yanks his hand away, realising his mistake.

Touching an unknown artefact is never a good idea.

Suddenly more than a little terrified, Shiro reaches for his hunting knife. He cautiously stabs at the inanimate object in front of him, recoiling when a layer of rock crumbles away into purple dust and swirls upwards, possessed.

Somewhat averse to the idea of being cursed, Shiro promptly turns tail. The dense trees loom in from either side, and all he wants is to be back out on the field again. He takes hasty steps, not daring to look behind him until he escapes the forest.

Not that a boulder can physically follow him. Shiro checks over his shoulder anyway.

Nothing – except for a fading wisp of smoke carried away with the wind.

-

(At this point, Keith finally speaks up, after a litany of raised eyebrows and judging looks.

“You shouldn’t have touched that. Dumbass.”

Shiro frowns. “I know that _now_. And I’m not done.”

His only reply is silence.)

-

Shiro’s first sign of discomfort appears mere hours later. He trips on a doorway and turns sharply to glare at the offending structure.

Maybe it’s time to call it a day, if his sudden bout of dizziness is any indication.

He lurches towards his bedroom, sliding into oblivion the moment his head hits the pillow.

When Shiro next wakes, the sun is long risen, the birds outside are squawking up a frenzy, and his mother is making even louder noises of agitation. He glances blearily at her, praying for the cacophony to stop.

“ – are you all right?”

_No,_ he wants to say, but his tongue sits dry and swollen in his mouth and a dense fog settles in his brain. Shiro twists in discomfort, making an incoherent noise as he sinks deeper into the mattress.

He must’ve gone back to sleep, because all of a sudden he’s being shaken awake again. His mother gestures at a bowl and helps him sit up. Food – which he unsuccessfully tries to push away.

Resigned, Shiro reaches out a stiff hand for the spoon. And lets out a strangled noise as loud as his mother’s gasp. 

His right hand is gone. And in its place, something mutated and warped beyond belief that Shiro is afraid to move his fingers, lest they crumble away. 

“What _is_ –” His mother sounds on the verge of crying. Shiro can’t blame her.

He cautiously grips the spoon in his hand, watching in disbelief as the gravelly texture of his skin creases at the joints. The tips of his fingers remain pink, but the rest of his hand is otherwise engulfed by the strange material.

Shiro reaches to touch the back of his right hand as his mother makes an abortive movement to stop him. 

Cold, is his first thought. And solid, rough, and unyielding. Like touching rock, if it were to flex and move under his fingertips.

A distant buzzing grows in his ears and Shiro notices distractedly his clenched jaw and tense muscles. His teeth are hurting, but it’s drowned out by the overwhelming sensation of _disgust_.

“Are you –” his mother begins, cut off by Shiro’s frustrated growl.

“Please … go.” He forces out, taking the bowl into both shaking hands before she drops it.

His bed has nowhere to set a piping bowl of soup, so Shiro reluctantly forces the liquid down, tasting nothing but nausea. His hand is a grey smudge in his peripheral vision. But each repetitive lift of the spoon from bowl to lips tamps down his panic, until his hyperventilation is more a heavy breathing. 

Finally, Shiro turns to address the offending limb. His hand is as grotesque as upon first glance. Swallowing down the bile that rises in his throat, Shiro lifts his arm for closer inspection.

Grey rock swallows both sides of his hand and creeps down his arm to below his wrist. His hand looks like a shattered-open boulder, rough crevices littering his palm.

With a weary sigh, he collapses onto his back. Shiro shushes the voice telling him to find a healer or witch doctor, and focuses on the blank slate of the ceiling. The wooden planks blur into a calm shade of brown as Shiro resolutely avoids thinking about the mysterious boulder from earlier.

Shiro regrets ever touching it, already certain of the cause of his affliction.

-

(“Idiot,” Keith mutters. Before Shiro has time to respond, he adds impatiently: “Then what happened?”

“I’m getting there.”

Keith looks like he wants to slap an abbreviated explanation straight out of him, but Shiro takes his time. Keith can’t move far, not with the stiff way he’s holding his injuries.)

-

A healer is his next destination, but not until he’s endured another day of twisting and turning through fevered dreams.

Shiro finds the shop with little difficulty when he enters town, a neat sign labelling it as an apothecary. The man who greets him inside is loud, boisterous, and entirely too excited to be a trained professional.

“Hey! This is Lance, and welcome –” He stops short when Shiro pulls the glove off his afflicted hand. “Agh. What _is_ that?”

Despite how repulsed Lance sounds, Shiro takes the few extra steps into the shop, stepping into the illuminated room and looking around to see mysterious jars and strings of herbs. A squat pigeon sits on the windowsill, beady eye trained on him. 

Shiro turns back to the shopkeeper and, trying not to slur his words or fall over, explains his situation in the hope of a sign of recognition.

Unfortunately, nothing. Lance looks just as confused as Shiro feels, if not more. With a sceptical expression, he gestures at Shiro to come closer and sit. 

“A ... disease?”

“I don't know,” Shiro admits, hoping the man knows enough to cure him.

The baffled expression doesn't disappear off Lance's face while he pulls thick tomes from his shelf and flips through them with fiery determination. Warily hopeful, Shiro sits still for a little longer.

His mother had suggested this place in her panic, so Shiro tries not to think about the coins he might be wasting on his time here and the food and equipment he'd be better off spending on.

Better to stay alive and conscious...

Lance hums to himself as he squints at each page. Shiro makes out upside-down diagrams and text from his seat, but with how few letters he can actually recognise, deciphering the code in front of him is difficult.

He'll just have to trust Lance to not poison him.

The first potential cure looks simple enough – a container of clear water.

“Put your hand in this," Lance chirps, "and we'll see what happens.”

Shiro's washed his hand after the incident and seen nothing happen, but he dips his fingers in the water anyway.

Almost immediately, a dark swirl of liquid appears, bubbling from his fingertips to the surface. Shiro looks up at Lance in shock to see the young man nod absently.

“What? What was that –”

"Means there's something nasty in there." He dips his chin at Shiro's hand. "We'll have to flush it out."

Unable to remember the last time he’d stepped foot in such a shop, Shiro gazes in wonder at the assorted techniques Lance begins preparing. His mother always preferred homemade elixirs to the overpriced remedies available at the shops. He tries not to be hyperaware of the money pouch settled at his waist as Lance starts laying out ingredients.

“Let's just start with –”

Shiro nods through the complicated words that fly over his head, watching curiously as Lance begins to slather his hand in strange pastes, mutter in malevolent-sounding tongues, and ultimately wipe his hand clean and shake his head in dismay. 

This happens another two times and Shiro's confidence starts ebbing away. What if he's stuck with this hand for all eternity?

And try as he might to deny it, the way in which the rock crept further up his arm and swallowed his fingers within a day was impossible to miss. If he doesn't find a cure, and fast, he hates to think what would happen.

Lance sticks his tongue out in concentration, his boisterous mood from before already dampened. Even the small talk he'd been making, mostly to himself, slows to a halt as he scans pages and pulls jars from shelves.

Just when Shiro's on the verge of getting up and leaving, Lance stands up dramatically, as if to make an announcement.

“Sorry.” He slaps two tired hands down on his desk, and Shiro stutters despairingly. “I don't think trying to remove whatever's infected your hand is going to work.”

Shiro’s pulse stammers to a halt. “Wait, then – what –”

“ _However_ , I can always use a protective ward to stop the disease from spreading.” Lance continues.

Shiro thinks of the implications: being stuck with a misshapen and useless hand for the rest of his life. Even if he can move the deformed fingers, he still risks injuring someone every time he reaches out with his hand. The scratched-up leather glove in his lap is the only remedy he can find.

“… I suppose,” Shiro acquiesces. “If there’s really nothing else that can be done.”

Lance shakes his head regretfully, preparing a new batch of ingredients - a length of string and some powders and liquids Shiro casually asks about. All of Lance's answers are incomprehensible.

Swallowing down his curiosity, Shiro watches silently as Lance methodically dips the length in various pastes and liquids, before pulling out a shard of flint.

“What's –” Shiro begins, interrupted as Lance sets the string alight with a sudden flourish. 

“This will hurt. Just a little.” Lance says, and then wraps the flaming string around Shiro's wrist before he can object.

He lets out a pained yelp.

The fire licks agonisingly at his skin before suddenly extinguishing. The string falls to charred pieces as Shiro quickly pulls his injured arm to his chest, worrying at the reddened burn marks.

"Don't touch!" Lance chastises. "It'll heal soon enough."

And sure enough, through the blanket of cold water he's allowed to submerge his arm in, Shiro can already see the redness fading, to be replaced with a faint brownish pattern. The ring around his arm is a short distance away from the diseased part of his hand.

Lance accepts Shiro's money with a wide grin on his face and pats his shoulder in a friendly manner. “You should feel better in no time. Maybe even right now?”

Shiro realises all of a sudden, that yes, the ache in his skull and the thrum in his hand are silent, the feverish blurs already a long-gone memory. He nods gratefully.

-

(Shiro chuckles humourlessly. “And so I thought all my problems were over, right?”

“They’re far from over,” Keith mutters.

A little unnerved, Shiro continues on with his story.)

-

The days are more bearable when he's no longer delirious and bed-ridden, but the everyday monotony that he longs for never reappears.

He wakes, first, to a bloodcurdling screech. Panic sends him careering out of bed and towards the source of the disturbance. He finds his mother in the sheep enclosure, where the first thing he notices is the putrid stench of blood and organs.

Shiro gags, taking the few steps forwards to stand by her side. In front of them, one of their flock lies on her side, white woollen hide a matted red from the injury splitting her flank.

She's long dead, if the visible organs are any indication. Some wild animal must've torn into her, all jaws and claws to rip, strangely enough, a singular gaping wound.

After another moment of stunned-silent observation, Shiro still can’t figure which of the local pests had made a meal of the ewe. The slightly charred edges of the wound hint at something more powerful than a single wolf. Something supernatural?

Keeping his fears to himself, Shiro helps his mother dispose of the corpse and promises to be on a vigilant lookout for any wild animals.

Unfortunately, they find nothing. And the traps, empty. A freak attack, he concludes.

And then he's pulled from his sleep again, mere days later, by a scream so reminiscent of the first that Shiro assumes he's having a nightmare. He wrenches his eyes open.

He’s sat on the floor of their living room, and his mother towers above him, face warped into a horrific grimace. Confused, he looks around to see the curled figure of Sven, his pet cat, in front of him.

Shiro lets out an aborted yell and throws himself backwards. Sven – has seen better days. A large gash splits his side, and his bulging eyes and stiff limbs resemble the work of a novice taxidermist.

Shiro scrambles to his feet, avoiding the dark puddle of red pooled on the floorboards, and searches for the attacker. 

His mother’s pained cry pulls him from his confusion. “Stop that!” She gestures wildly at his hand, and Shiro falters.

It was already horrific before, but now his hand is now lit up with an otherwordly purple glow. Worse than that is the slimy, half-congealed gore coating his skin, that crumbles and dries into dust before his very eyes.

Shiro's brain comes to an incoherent standstill. “I – I didn't –”

Didn't murder the cat. Even if the evidence is there before them. A tuft of ginger fur floats off his drying hand.

His mother is equally lost for words. She takes a halting step backwards as Shiro gets to his feet.

“Don't – don't – get that away from me!”

Without his prompting, the purple glow fades away as Shiro turns tail and flees - out to scour his lungs clean, out to scrub the death from his hands, out to –

The idea appears in his head once he overhears his mother's distressed noises as she cleans up his mess.

Foregoing further deliberation, Shiro packs all his belongings and takes as much food and money as he can without feeling guilty (but guilt throbs in his chest all the same, forcing him to run run run until he can longer see the house).

Lance has no magical cure for him, and the town is far from welcoming. His hand lights up when he's attempting to wrestle answers from an innocent healer, and suddenly Shiro has little choice but to flee.

They already know him as the diligent son of the sheep farm a ways from the town, and now – a monster.

\-----

“And that’s what happened,” Shiro finishes lamely. “I haven’t seen any weapon like my hand, so I guessed it might have a chance against the dragon.”

Keith nods and reaches out a cautious hand. “Can I see the protective ward?” 

Shiro silently watches as Keith peers interestedly at the patterned ring around his arm, pulling back a little when he leans closer.

“Shouldn’t you tell me your side of the story? Now that you know mine.” His tone isn’t rude or impatient, but Keith seems to take it as such, shrinking back into his seat to regard Shiro with drawn brows.

“What’s there to tell?” Keith shrugs dismissively.

“Everything?” Shiro thinks back to his fateful encounter with the dragon, the memories still crisp. He can’t forget the way the massive slain dragon disappeared in a wisp of smoke. And he’s sure Keith knows more than he’s letting on, if his sudden fidgeting is any indication.

“I killed the dragon, and then it … disappeared. And you were lying right where the dragon had been. Do you know what happened?” Shiro suspects that the beast had possessed Keith, or else had spat out its victim alive, but the only way to know for sure is from the man himself.

Keith blinks stiffly. “I don’t know – I don’t remember. Maybe my memories will come back after time.” Before Shiro has time to respond, he adds, hastily: “And I know a good prosthetist.”

Shiro raises an eyebrow, taken aback. “What?”

“For your hand.”

“Why would I need a prosthetic?”

“After you get it removed, of course.” Keith sounds exasperated, like he’s talking to a five year old.

Bewildered, Shiro wonders what he’d missed. “Why would I need to get it removed? It’s working just fine – I’ve got it all under control, trust me.”

“Well, you _say_ that – wait ‘til it spreads further up your arm.”

Keith sounds so self-assured that Shiro feels a slight panic well up. “That’s … not going to happen?”

“It will! Why don’t you believe me?”

“I don’t know anything about you. Except for your name. What makes you think I’m going to trust your word over a skilled healer’s?”

“You don’t even know anything about what he did to your arm – or if it worked.”

“I definitely felt a lot better after his magic.” 

Shiro watches in concern as Keith balls his fists up in his lap and teeters on the edge of his seat.

“If he was a _proper_ magician, then he should know there’s no way of stopping _that_ from consuming you.” Keith derisively scowls at Shiro’s arm. He huffs in annoyance as Shiro stares at him.

“And … you are?”

“What?”

“A proper magician?” Shiro asks slowly, not expecting Keith’s entire demeanour to shift. He stills on his seat, cocking his head in confusion.

“Why would you think I’m a magician? Did I do anything magic?”

“No, but –”

Keith blinks curiously at him, and Shiro sighs.

“How about this – why don’t you tell me everything you know about my arm. And stop pretending; it’s obvious you know more than you’re letting on.”

Keith hums.

“You know what’s affecting my arm, right?”

Keith shrugs, picks at his nails, and mumbles a few incoherent words.

Shiro stares down the toddler in front of him. “Look, I can tell you're trying to help – bringing up the prosthetics and all – but keeping me in the dark doesn't help anyone.”

“Fine. But don't hate me for what I'm going to tell you.”

A determined glint reappears in Keith's eyes as he settles more comfortably in his seat.

“First, you have to know about two things. The Galra, and quintessence. Either ring a bell?”

Shiro shakes his head no, thinking of his eighteen years on the farm with little to no exposure to anything supernatural. 

“Of course not," Keith scoffs. "You touched that obviously poisoned rock without a second thought.”

Keith looks desperate to flaunt his knowledge, and Shiro lets him get on with the explanation. But how was he to know the rock was _poisoned_?

“Anyway. The Galra are … famous for dark magic. They're ruthless, immoral, where your sweet _Lance_ cares about making you feel better.” Keith eyes Shiro's protective ward with piercing eyes and he resists the urge to cradle his hand to his chest.

“And the reason why the Galra are so good at curses and unnatural spells and coming up with ways to force people to do their bidding is – ” and here he pauses for effect, Shiro raising a brow at the dramatics, " _Quintessence_. Take regular magical energy, and concentrate that to dangerous levels. Of course, the Galra perfected their art over time, so there’s fewer deaths now.”

He chews at his lip as Shiro blinks, trying to process the sudden influx of information.

“So, the Galra are a group of sorcerers?” Shiro asks.

“Yes. Large enough to rival a town.” 

Shiro balks, wondering how a massive horde of dark magicians have gone unnoticed (at least by him and his village) for so long.

“And they – my arm?” He gestures at his afflicted arm and Keith frowns, deeper.

“Quintessence poisoning. I've seen it before, in humans. Too much magical energy and it starts disintegrating flesh and blood. A healthy man reduced to a pile of dust in less than a day.”

His stare is chilling, and suddenly Shiro feels a lot younger than Keith. A lot more innocent and naive.

“And you still refuse to get your hand amputated?”

“But I've had this condition for much longer than a day, and I'm still alive.”

“Well,” Keith huffs, “that doesn't make sense. You should be dead after touching that boulder – quintessence _kills_. I don't know what strange magic Lance pulled from thin air, but only the Galra know how to handle quintessence. That's what makes them untouchable.”

Shiro doesn't know if it's his imagination, but Keith's words contain a slight enthusiastic lilt. And something strange Keith said suddenly hits him.

_Seen it in …_ “Humans. Did you say _humans_?”

“Did I?”

“Are you suggesting the Galra aren't human? If not, then –”

Suddenly, Shiro is scared of what else Keith has to tell him. Meddling with the supernatural is never a good idea, especially if they have the means to control a power that can kill people on contact. Well, except for him, apparently.

Keith mulls over his question. “They're human, I suppose. But dark magic warps your soul and gives you resistance to quintessence. That's why they can control it without immediately falling ill.”

His answer should be more a comfort to Shiro. But all he can think of is one possibility.

“If I haven't died yet, then does it mean I'm Galra?”

“You would know if you’re Galra.” Keith mutters. “They’d come find you already.”

“The boulder?” Shiro asks fearfully. Whatever it was, it had appeared too close to his house, a danger to all who lived nearby.

Keith looks surprised to be reminded of its existence. “Oh. That. I don’t know what that was, but glowing and purple is definitely a sign of quintessence. What was quintessence doing so close to your farm?”

“I don’t know.”

“What business do the Galra have with you?” Keith asks contemplatively, eyes drifting away.

They trail off into silence, and it isn’t until Shiro notices Keith’s pale complexion and disoriented gaze that he realises the conversation has gone on for long enough.

“We can talk about this later – you shouldn’t tire yourself out.” 

“I’m not tired,” Keith snaps, but Shiro doesn’t miss the skulking way he creeps back into the bedroom almost immediately.


	2. Chapter 2

In his weeks here, the number of visitors he’s had to the house can be counted on one hand. He had been outgoing and confident in his hometown, but his new hand is enough to steer him away from prolonged human contact. Gloves are easy to explain, but the material hissing and charring when his emotions flare up – less so.

Almost every motherly figure he passes by on his brief forays into town is enough to send a pang of guilt through his chest and a resultant glow through his hand. Shiro has no choice but to avoid every visual reminder of what he’s left behind.

He’s maintained his distant façade well – the people know him only as the hunter who lives on the edge of town. And the truth about his hand he shares with no one, in case they accuse him of corrupt magic or dealing with demons.

 _Shared_ with no one. 

Shiro tries to pinpoint the exact moment he tripped up. The impulsively suicidal response to the massive bounty on the dragon’s head? The decision to take the injured man into his care? And then to so easily succumb to Keith’s persistence with everything he’d been keeping bottled up.

Shiro sits heavily on his bed, ignoring Keith’s indignant grunt when the mattress dips.

The job had sounded simple in his mind – seek out the dragon, avoid death and return victorious with the dragon’s head, and use the money to fix his hand. Fleeing home had been impulsive, but from a safe distance away, Shiro has time to think. 

He’d had a plan, of sorts, until Keith appeared from nowhere and trampled all over it.

The man in question sprawls across his bed, messy hair fanned out on the pillow and limbs stretching to reach every corner of his bed. Not an optimal position for his injuries, and Shiro repositions Keith onto his side, lying down beside him. There are animals to be out hunting and bounties to claim, but Shiro supposes he can make up for lost time later, when Keith is healed and he's a little less confused about everything he's just learnt.

Shiro closes his eyes to the warm press of Keith's back against his arm, the swirling regret of letting this stranger into his life, and his imaginations of the Galra. A purple glow of evil rituals shrouds his dreams.

A wet coughing rouses him, and Shiro wakes confused, searching for the source of disturbance. He nearly slaps Keith with an errant hand before remembering the body sleeping next to him. 

He lights a candle and turns to find Keith still in the throes of sleep, face twisting from the effort of hacking wetly. 

“Keith! Keith, are you okay?” Shiro is afraid to shake him when his life-threatening injury is barely healed. But his hissed words are enough for Keith to crack open his eyes and stare at Shiro in confusion.

“Wha –” Another cough tears from his lips and Shiro manoeuvres him into a sitting position, fetching water and feeding it down his throat before he can slump back down and fall asleep.

“Do you want some food? I know I’m hungry.”

In response, Keith nods weakly, his attitude from before dulled with sleep.

“I have bread. And honey.” And other ingredients tucked away, but the moon hanging in the sky convinces Shiro to eat a quick meal before returning to bed. Staying awake when darkness falls heavy inside and out is tempting fate. Maybe if the fireplace were still ablaze …

Shiro carries thick slices of bread smeared with honey back to the bedroom, fighting down the urge to sprint. His house is by no means large, but there are still plenty of corners for shadows to lurk in.

Keith opens his eyes when he returns, leaning forwards to sniff eagerly at the offering.

“Please don’t leave crumbs on the bed,” Shiro mutters, but tears into his own piece of bread as eagerly as Keith inhales everything on the plate before them.

“Thanks,” Keith hums, licking honey from his fingertips.

“No problem.”

Sated, Shiro settles back down, only to get a palm to the face.

“Go away – I’m trying to sleep.”

“So am I, and this is my bed.” Shiro grumbles, grateful for his bulk when his skinnier companion shoves fruitlessly. Keith eventually gives up on claiming the entire bed for himself, but not after elbowing him a half-dozen times and whining about his injuries.

Shiro falls asleep to a faceful of tangled hair and the feeling of his pillow being slowly yanked out from underneath his head.

\-----

Keith’s vigour has returned by the next morning, already gesturing at Shiro’s hand and pondering the source of his affliction with more enthusiasm than Shiro himself can muster up at such an early hour.

“Please stay still,” Shiro mutters, attempting to wrap up Keith’s neck. The new bandages unravel with each turn of Keith’s head – though the view outside catches his attention for long enough that Shiro can tuck the bandage into place.

“What were we talking about yesterday?” Keith mumbles to himself, and Shiro changes the subject before he can start discussing the merits of amputation.

“Breakfast first.”

Keith doesn’t shut up at the mention of food, continuing to piece together the scraps of information they’d shared yesterday. Shiro admires his determination, his own growling belly directing his brain a one-way path towards the fireplace.

“What did you say happened before you found the boulder? An explosion?”

“How many eggs do you want?” Shiro asks in lieu of a reply, hunched over the fire and watching Keith sniff interestedly at the sizzling pan.

“Why would there be an explosion? Was there fire?”

Shiro cracks another egg in and hums as the liquid bubbles and quickly solidifies. The fire is warm on his skin and the eggs promise to be delicious, and all Shiro wants is to sit in the warmest spot in the house and watch the day pass by. Which he _could_ do, if he’d received his reward for taking down an entire dragon.

Instead, he watches Keith gobble down his share of eggs and accompanying bread and thinks of where to next. Merchants are always willing to buy a freshly-slain animal off him, even if there may be strange char marks in place of stab wounds.

He supposes he can just leave Keith by himself, now that he’s no longer bed-ridden. As long as he doesn’t make off with any valuables. Shiro contemplatively watches him lick grease from his lips, and Keith looks up with raised eyebrows.

“So? Are you going to tell me more about the rock now?”

 _And thank you for breakfast,_ Shiro adds in his head. He admits defeat when Keith leans forwards expectantly. “Sure.”

“So, you said you heard an _explosion_?” 

“A sudden boom, maybe?” All Shiro remembers is being startled out of the monotony of watching sheep by the loudest sound he’s had the misfortune of hearing.

“The rock exploded but was in one piece when you found it?” Keith scratches his head and leans back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling so that Shiro gets a long hard look at the narrow column of his neck. He admires his own bandaging skills as Keith tips his head forwards with a frustrated sigh.

“What’s quintessence doing in a random forest? Are the Galra trying to poison you? Are _you_ Galra?”

Keith bounds out of his chair and digs greasy fingers into Shiro’s eyelids as he attempts to stare deep into his eyes. Shiro pushes him backwards.

“No, of course not.” Keith mutters, slapping a hand to his forehead. He narrows his eyes at Shiro and the man in question rubs furiously at his violated eyelids.

Shiro frowns.

Keith ignores him entirely, as though he hadn’t just invaded anyone’s personal space. He looks to be in the midst of piecing together a difficult mental puzzle, but Shiro snaps anyway.

“Look. I understand if I’m supposed to care for you when you’re injured, but if you’re going to come into my life demanding answers left and right …” Shiro’s nostrils flare in irritation, “When will you tell me everything you’ve been hiding? Why do you know so much about the Galra? What do you know of my hand?”

Keith freezes to the spot. He silently works his jaw, staring at Shiro and at his hand in turn.

“I – I know of the Galra because a group lived near my hometown. And – I heard stories about them. And –” His painful fumbling for words stops as Keith’s eyes light up, “And we should go pay them a visit! Ask them what’s happening.”

Shiro’s only had a few measly waking hours to process the threat the Galra pose, but Keith’s suggestion sounds awfully reckless. Maybe he’d just misheard.

“Are you saying we go _visit_ the most dangerous magicians there are?”

Keith waves off his worries with a careless hand. “Hm. Maybe. We can ambush one of them and get the answers we’re looking for.”

Shiro doesn’t like the sound of ambushing, especially concerning a dark wizard who could curse him dead ten times over. But before he can voice his concerns, Keith leaps up with another bright proclamation.

“We should set off right now – it takes days to get there.”

“No thanks,” Shiro mutters, “You’re not even fully healed.”

He presses a gentle thumb near Keith’s weeping injury and the resultant flinch is enough to illustrate his point.

“I guess. But what am I supposed to do? Sleep all day?” He asks this with a mocking edge.

“Yeah. You’re hurt. Go sleep.”

Keith sags comically before him, disappointment written in the lines of his face. Shiro doesn’t like to see him upset, but neither does he want to trespass into the magical equivalent of a hornet’s nest.

“What do you do in the daytime? Can I help?”

Shiro thinks of sneaking around in bushes and fields and attacking on the slight movement; of carrying carcasses back to his house then town and bargaining with anyone who’ll buy from him.

“Not really. You _could_ go down to the shops and get food. Or find work. But not in your condition.”

Keith stretches, all limber arms and legs to demonstrate how able-bodied he is, but a twinge runs through his neck. He swallows down a pained noise.

“Go rest,” Shiro chastises for the last time, before readying himself for a day of work.

\-----

Shiro never returns to a wrecked house or Keith permanently escaped, but instead to increasingly detailed plans of their Galra-visit.

“I know an easy way there,” Keith interrupts Shiro’s state of exhausted meditation. He blinks his way back to the present.

“Do you want to help make lunch?”

“Sure, and while we do that I can explain my plans.”

Shiro sighs, the meat and root vegetables in front of him a pitiful distraction. He forces himself to listen, wondering if Keith’s healing injury can be a good enough reason to delay their journey. The patches of skin on his neck and leg are near-healed, but not entirely.

Keith is adamant on departing, and as soon as possible. “I asked around, and there are ships leaving every week from the harbour – by the next town over. We’ll have to travel there and wait for the next departure.”

“We’re serious about paying the Galra a visit?” Shiro asks incredulously, a little off-put just by the mention of ships. Especially ships out on the open ocean.

Keith nods seriously. “Of course. Don’t you want to find out who poisoned your hand?” 

“Not really –”

Keith continues, “And I – I’m curious, too! I’m doing this on your behalf; you should be flattered.”

“We don’t have to go there just for my hand.” His problem is mostly contained – even if he still wouldn’t trust himself near his mother. “It’s fine, right?”

“Not unless you get it amputated.”

“I’m –” Shiro shakes his head. “Not doing that.”

“Do you _want_ to die?” Keith snaps in his face.

“Not any more than you, suggesting we go to a Galran hideout.”

“We’re not going to die,” Keith says through a mouthful of food (snatched from the pan by his bare fingers). “And this is really good, thanks.”

Shiro gives him a smaller portion to account for his stealing and watches Keith sulk.

“You’re welcome – for the food. And shelter. And, hmm, how do you suppose we find the money to hitch a ride on one of those ships?”

“Thank you,” Keith repeats, picking at a stringy bit of something stuck in his teeth. “Oh, I didn’t think of that…”

Quietly relieved the ‘visit’ (that is definitely not happening, if he has any say in it) has been delayed, if only temporarily, Shiro finishes off the rest of the food and orders Keith to clean up.

He does so, albeit very slowly.

“I’m going out again. Thank you for tidying up.” Shiro eyes Keith’s languid movements, the latter already used to day after day of lounging around, eating and sleeping.

“… No problem.”

\-----

Shiro earns so little reward money that day that anxiety worms parasitically into his brain and take root. The small stash of coins at home is reserved for emergencies, and Keith’s a grown adult, so he’s fit to feed himself…

Except Keith isn’t in the house when he returns. Concerned, Shiro checks his emergency stash, just in case. Nothing has been stolen.

Keith takes his sweet time returning to the house, reappearing late in the evening toting a hefty sack of coins and strange rocks. He pulls his baggage out from under his shirt. 

Shiro stares.

“Keith…”

“Yeah?” The bag is set down on the table with a thump, a few coins spilling out of the opening. Keith nonchalantly dusts himself off.

“Where did you steal that from?”

In hindsight, Shiro’s question isn’t exactly polite, but Keith’s aggressive reaction still takes him by surprise. The shorter man throws himself at Shiro, kicking and slapping until he collapses in defeat.

“I didn’t steal _anything_ , so stop presuming!”

He boots Shiro in the chest a few more times before walking away to count his earnings. 

Shiro picks himself up, feeling like he’s been in a tussle with a wild pig, and hobbles over to Keith. 

“I’m sorry, okay?” His placating plea doesn’t lessen the aching pain all over his body, but at least Keith looks a little less murderous.

He hums in disinterest, stacking the coins into neat tens.

“ _This_ enough for the ships?”

“Where did you get that?” Shiro asks again, carefully.

Keith sniffs. “Found some stuff. Sold it.”

“Did you sell everything in my house?” Shiro asks impulsively, though he’s pretty sure everything’s where it should be. He can’t see Keith single-handedly carrying the bed all the way to town, and there isn’t much else in the way of valuables.

“ _No._ Stop making assumptions.” Keith crosses his arms over his chest after giving his neat stacks of coins another once-over. He turns to glare at Shiro. “I just found some stones. In the forest. And sold them.”

“For _that_ much money?”

Keith flicks a dark-red speck off his hand before Shiro can give it any thought. “Yeah? Some stones are expensive.”

He gestures at the pile next to the coins, and Shiro curiously picks one up. It looks like a regular grey rock. A little like his hand, though the comparison sends a wave of nausea through him.

Except when he looks closer and sees dull specks of gold scattered like stars. 

“Keith,” he says slowly, “where did you find these?”

“In the forest, I told you.” Keith doesn’t look him in the eye.

Shiro is familiar with the forest, because it’s one of the locations in which he hunts game, and he can’t recall ever seeing a pile of precious stones on the ground, or at least not enough to exchange for the small mountain of coins Keith has heaped up on his table.

One neatly-stacked pile topples over with a sudden clatter and Keith hurriedly rebuilds the structure.

“Did you … accidentally stumble into a mineshaft?” It’s the only explanation he can think of, albeit a poor one.

Keith shrugs. “Sure. Anyway, this should be enough, right? So we can set off whenever you want.”

 _I don’t want,_ Shiro thinks.

It turns out Keith has earned (stolen? extorted?) a pretty sum, enough to travel away and still have gold left over. Shiro entrusts Keith with the extra and tells him to buy some food the next morning, seeing as he’s steadily eaten his way through Shiro’s pantry for the last few days.

“Something to last us on the journey there?”

Shiro grimaces. “We don’t need to prepare for that _now_.”

“… Whatever you say. But then I’ll just leave by myself, and take all the money with me. Even the coins I was willing to spend on food for us…”

Shiro _could_ see him off, but he can’t let the mystery itching in his right hand slip away so easily. “Wait – you can’t leave without at least telling me where you came from and about the dragon.”

Keith looks taken aback. “What does that matter? The dragon is long gone.” He carelessly waves his hand.

That may be true, but Shiro’s suspicions haven’t waned. “Is it? Where has it gone to? Would a beast that size die without a trace?”

Keith makes a noncommittal sound.

Shiro has never been a good liar. His mother’s piercing gaze and his own short-circuiting brain made every lie a stuttered mess and every excuse a rotting pile of words. But even he’s better than Keith, currently shifting about in his seat with an unconvincingly nonchalant expression plastered on his face.

His fingers tap a senseless rhythm as he narrows his eyes at nothing. “Hmm…” 

Shiro takes a patient breath as the man before him hums in apparent thought. He coughs lightly and Keith jolts back to present.

“H-How about this: help me find answers from the Galra, and then you can get all the answers you want from me.”

“So you suddenly remembered everything?” Shiro quirks an eyebrow and Keith turns stiffly back to his coins.

“You’re agreeing to come, yes? We can set off tomorrow.”

Shiro sighs.

\-----

As someone with little tying him to the town, Shiro is free to go whenever he wishes. But even so, it takes some physical coercion from Keith before he agrees to leave his house behind for the foreseeable future.

“What? Are you scared the big bad Galra are going to hurt you?”

“They already took my hand,” Shiro mutters.

“Use it against them.”

“I suppose…”

“And don’t worry, I can hold my own against them well enough.” Keith pulls a dagger from his belt with a flourish and Shiro blinks. 

He definitely doesn’t recall seeing that weapon nor the sheath attached to his belt in the days past, but Shiro doubts Keith will care to explain. The blade is dull silver against the worn brown handle, simplistic in its design and refined to a sharp edge. Keith waves it at him and Shiro takes a cautious step back.

“Weren’t you limping just a few days ago? _Aren’t_ you still?”

“No.”

And it’s true – the bandages are long disposed and Keith’s bare neck and leg bear jagged scars, the healed patches of skin the only sign of past injury. Shiro reaches out a thumb to smooth against the bumpy skin on his nape and Keith doesn’t flinch back with a pained hiss. Which is a good sign.

He does, however, try to bite Shiro’s thumb off. “Don’t touch me!”

“You cling to me every night,” Shiro reminds, and Keith wrinkles his nose.

“We won’t need to share a bed after we’ve left.”

And with that declaration, he struts out of the house, pack stuffed to the brim and trusty dagger by his side. Shiro follows him, wariness bordering on regret. He clicks the latch on the door into place.

Keith is eager to run ahead to the edge of the town, but he slows once they step onto the paved streets and into the crowds, sticking to Shiro’s side as they navigate through haggling customers and merchants loudly promoting their wares. 

The main road out isn’t hard to find – a wide path, littered with a generous handful of travellers.

They manage to hitch a ride after walking for a solid hour, when the sudden clop-clopping of a cart approaching from behind startles them both. The old man at the reins is reluctant to stop until Keith pulls a few coins from his bag faster than Shiro can blink, whistling and waving at the cart as it slows to a halt.

“Got any space?”

Not exactly, but they find a spot in between bags of grain to sit tucked elbow-to-elbow. The cart soon sets off once again, whipping wind through the loose hemp bags and Keith’s hair. Shiro gets a faceful before he pushes Keith to a safe distance away.

“Ow – watch it!” 

“Watch your hair.”

Keith shakes his hair out like a dog would his fur and thwacks Shiro full in the face in response.

He admits defeat. The bag of grain next to him makes a better travelling companion anyway, comfortably changing shape when he leans against it. With the wind whistling in his ears and the scenery unchanging in front of him (trees, more trees, and the occasional farm), Shiro is quickly lulled to sleep. 

Keith is silent beside him.

\-----

Keith eyes Shiro’s impromptu bed in disdain – the bag is pitifully squashed and close to bursting. He doesn’t want to pay the merchant any compensatory damages, but trying to manoeuvre Shiro from his spot is difficult. Keith remembers nights of trying and failing to fight for a larger half of the bed.

Instead, he watches the scenery go by, the wind on his face reminding him of higher altitudes, of flapping his wings and lifting the weight of his body off the ground. He’d always feel impossibly weighed down on the ground, but the moment he was airborne the curse became less of a burden.

Not that he could fly far, with the humans always ready to shoot projectiles at his massive silhouette. 

Keith blinks furiously when the breeze blows grit into his eyes.

During his vigilant lookout, the village they’re headed to never gets any closer. Keith stifles a yawn and inspects the sleeping man beside him.

Shiro is drooling into the crook of his arm, tuft of hair drooping over his forehead and expression peaceful. Just for the fun of it, Keith tugs at Shiro’s hair. He sputters in his sleep.

He hadn’t suggested the visit solely because of revenge – Shiro’s boulder is also worth investigating – but just the thought of the witch who cursed him sets his blood afire. What felt like millennia out on the plains should have soothed his anger, but instead, he excitedly awaits the confrontation.

Determinedly, Keith wills his long-forgotten knowledge to return. He can remember the exact breed of anger he felt before his transformation, but not a handful of spells?

Caught up in his dilemma, Keith doesn’t notice they’ve arrived until the juddering beneath him stops and the old man hollers at them to get off. Keith tugs a sleepy Shiro to his feet and drags him onto the road as the cart resumes its pace and pulls away into the distance.

“We’re here.”

Shiro stifles a yawn and nods hazily. “The port?”

“Mm.”

The ocean is visible from where they’re standing, and as Keith and Shiro navigate down sloping paths the array of boats come into view. Small oarboats line the quay beside a few massive merchant ships, sails drooping and miniscule figures trooping in and out. 

They make a beeline to the nearest ship. The crafts are even larger up close, and Keith can hear Shiro’s jaw audibly drop at the sight.

“Never seen one up close?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Of course not. I’ve lived inland my whole life.”

Silently, Keith hopes Shiro won’t contract any kind of sickness from being at sea for too long. He himself has nearly forgotten the sensation of lengthy journeys on a boat, having been gone from his seaside hometown for so long.

They ask around, and it turns out that the soonest departure is in a day, some of the other galleons staying for another week or month. Keith makes a show of desperately fishing for coins from his empty coin pouch (their other riches squirreled away deep into his bag) until one of the men at the gangplank nods gruffly and lets them board. 

“Takes a week to get to the Arusal Bay on one‘a these. You’ll need to bring your own food, unless you got more coins in there.” He nods at Keith’s bag and he grips it tighter, suddenly aware of how little food they have with them. 

Enough for a few days, but not a week.

“Give me the money back. We’ll board later.”

Keith holds out his empty hand and the man makes a show of dropping the fistful of coins one by one into his palm. 

“There might not be space if you come back too late – give me a few coins and we’ll let you on no problem.”

“No thanks.”

Who knows if they’ll deny the pair of them passage even after taking their money. Keith tucks his coins away and walks back to the main stretch of shops, looking for dried meats and other food to sustain their stay. 

“A week?” Shiro asks, a little uncertain.

“You should be glad it’s not a month or more.”

Keith unconsciously tongues at his gums, remembering bleeding and pain and the overwhelming urge to get back on land as soon as possible. Perhaps living away from the coast does have its benefits.

"We'll need food. Enough for the trip there."

"Oh. Yeah, of course." Shiro turns to survey the unfamiliar town, and Keith notes the slightly dazed look on his face.

"Are you okay? Are the Galra too daunting for you?" Keith asks in detached concern, and Shiro's frown borders on offended.

"No. I've already agreed to whatever we have to do to get information about my hand. It's just ... the ship. I've been on small canoes, but not – something that size."

"It's not going to sink, if that's what you're thinking."

"I'm not!" Shiro shakes himself and strides towards the nearest shop. Keith follows him and peers over his shoulder.

"You have enough money for that bread? Sure you don't want me to _steal_ some more?"

"I thought you obtained it through legitimate methods?" Shiro raises a concerned brow.

"Of course. I was just joking."

“Oh.”

Keith nods.

Elbow-to-elbow, they pick through each stall, Shiro spending carefully and Keith drooling over the sweets and delicate desserts.

"Are you sure we need that?" Shiro asks for the third time as Keith points excitedly at golden slices of flaky pastry. Keith sulks quietly, but refrains from sneaking a coin to the vender.

"No, but why not?"

"Because neither of us have that kind of money."

Keith stares up at Shiro's impassive face. "What if we need that pastry to survive on the ship? You never know."

Shiro shrugs. "I doubt it?"

Keith supposes he’s right, but he gives in to his urges another ten minutes later, when he spots – no, _smells_ – the crispy deep-fried rounds filled with sweet syrup at a nearby shop. The smell takes him back to his brief childhood and Keith grabs Shiro by a heavy arm and drags him towards the fried delicacies.

“One of these, please.”

“Only one?” Shiro mumbles, and Keith pinches his arm before letting go, using both hands to steady the treat as it’s offered to him.

He nearly keels over in pleasure at the first bite, crunching into the crisp layers and slightly burning his tongue on the hot filling.

“Mm – _fuck_.”

“That good?” He can hear the amused expression on Shiro’s face, and shakes himself out of his reverie. Keith swallows his sugary mouthful, a little embarrassed.

“Stop staring and focus on the job.”

“Of course, of course,” Shiro acquiesces. Keith tries not to notice the way his grey eyes stray to the pastry in his hands with each pleasurable bite he takes.

He licks crumbs from his hands once the entire thing is gobbled down. Slight regret burns its way down into his belly, but he can always buy another one when the shop is so near…

Keith licks the sweet residue from the inside of his mouth and tries to focus. They have a task to do – and dawdling and eating pastries isn’t in the description.

Despite the foreign buildings and streets, Keith’s mind strays to an imagined past life – Shiro’s bulk beside him a parent’s, the shops those from his hometown, and the pastry in his stomach purchased using his mother’s money and deposited into his chubby hands by the smiling shopkeeper they see twice a week. 

Maybe the same shopkeeper will be still in his hometown. And his mother, too.

Motivated, Keith speeds up his steps until Shiro is calling for him to slow down.

“Why’re you in such a rush?”

“Don’t you want to find out sooner? About your hand?” He swats at the affected hand loosely gripping his upper arm. “About everything?”

“I guess,” Shiro hums. “Are you sure if anyone will have the answers?”

Time passing had blurred for Keith in his dragon form, but he’s still aware that years have passed. And in those years – who knows how the Galra have grown. Keith imagines a barricaded stronghold perched beside his hometown, a looming castle, or some settlement double or triple the size of the Galran village he remembers. Silently, Keith hopes this journey won’t end badly for Shiro or him.

Despite only knowing the man for a short period of time, Keith has to accept that he’s gotten a little attached. It’d be nice if Shiro didn’t die. From the Galra or from his arm.

He brushes aside his concerns and fixes Shiro with a firm look. “The two of us are enough to force any Galra to talk. That hand of yours is a nasty piece of work, and they know it.”

Shiro raises two concerned brows. “I sure hope so. How much more do we have left to buy?”

“Just a bit. And then we can board the ship.”

 _Just a bit_ turns out to be enough to bring their total baggage to two full packs and an additional small satchel. 

Luckily, the man guarding the gangplank lets them on despite the sun drooping in the sky. The ship is poorly illuminated, the slanting orange rays barely enough for Keith to avoid tripping up on misplaced tools or jutting nails. 

The nearest sailor points the pair of them to a coil of rope beside the main mast. “Anywhere on the deck’s fine; don’t get in the way.”

“No space in the hold?” Spending their days in the open-air is only favourable if the weather stays calm – and Keith has no way of knowing if the blur on the horizon is fog or a distant storm cloud.

“Shouldn’t be. You can check below decks, but don’t mess with the cargo – you’ll have to pay for anything you break.”

They descend past stores of food, water, and important-looking chests, until another anonymous sailor nods curtly at their presence.

“Passengers? Further down. Beside the barrels. Don’t sneak into any of them and we won’t toss you overboard.”

The barrels in question line the storeroom they enter, neatly stacked and leaving them little room to sit down. The sturdy wooden frame of the ship blocks out all light, their only illumination a sliver from somewhere above decks.

Keith sighs. “Maybe we can stay up there for the time being? Or try and find a spare lantern.”

“I don’t mind the outdoors,” Shiro responds mildly, and Keith shrugs.

The storeroom is cramped and the air musty and pungent with whatever is in the barrels, so they relocate to the main deck without further discussion.

Some asking around confirms the ship is leaving early the next morning, and that, yes, they’ll need to shell out a lot more if they want one of the empty cabins reserved for important passengers.

“Let’s just sit down and have something to eat,” Shiro suggests. “No point in fretting – at least we’re on the ship now.”

“I’m not fretting,” Keith mutters, settling heavily against Shiro’s shoulder as he sits down to chew at his bread with slow contemplative bites. They share a bloated waterskin between them, taking tiny sips to wash down the dry food.

Keith finds himself missing Shiro’s meals cooked over a roaring fire and he swallows down the dry lump in his throat. They’ll reach their destination soon enough, and once there, the return home will come swiftly.

Around them, dusk falls swiftly, the sailors tidying up the clutter on the deck and retiring to their quarters. The surroundings soon fall silent, bar the quietest hints of activity from the locked cabins. 

Keith tilts his head back to stare at the stars, and then at Shiro beside him. Shiro is calmly watching the town before them go to sleep, eyes blinking lazily. But Keith is fixated on the soft strands of hair that fall onto his forehead, fluttering about and slightly catching the moonlight.

His urge to touch comes suddenly, a warmth that draws him nearer and catches Shiro’s attention. 

“What –” 

Keith quickly leans away, guilty for having been caught staring.

“Nothing.”

The atmosphere is tangibly uncomfortable, and Keith stays determinedly, embarrassedly, silent.

“I might lie down for a bit.”

“Mm.”

Shiro’s breathing evens out beside him and Keith lets out a long exhale, thinking of the week to come, confined to the small space that is the galleon’s deck. He lies down, eventually, pulling at the edge of Shiro’s long jacket and tucking himself against his side.


	3. Chapter 3

Keith stirs as the ship is pulling away from the docks. Cold air caresses his face, and he struggles to shy away. 

“Morning.” Shiro says from above him, audible despite the cacophony in the background.

“Hmm – do we have to wake up?” Keith doesn’t open his eyes, fingers tugging at the warm woollen jacket Shiro is trying to pry from his grip.

“No. But I might eat your share of breakfast if you’re out ‘til noon.”

Keith makes an unintelligible noise.

When he next wakes, wind is ruffling in his hair. Shivering a little, Keith joins Shiro on an unoccupied section of the railing. The sea foams and spits and writhes below them, and there’s something daunting about the absence of land in all directions. 

Keith glances at Shiro. He looks at ease, unlike the nervously churning ocean in Keith’s stomach. It’s hard to relax when their destination is still so far, and Keith slumps against the side of the ship, peering down into the murky water. 

This will be tedious, unless they can find something to keep themselves occupied. As if aware of his thoughts, Shiro turns to Keith.

“What are we going to do for seven days?”

\-----

For Shiro, a week usually passes in a blur of earning money and feeding himself, so the sudden vacation comes as a change. Waiting for the ship to deliver them to their destination leaves him feeling stagnant and unproductive. Biting back a yawn, he looks to Keith for ideas.

While excitable on land, being stuck out in the big blue leaves Keith passive and sullen. But perhaps that’s as the days pass and the looming threat of the Galra grows closer and closer.

They pass the time discussing trivialities – Shiro waxing poetic about his home and Keith letting little pieces slip when he feels like doing so. His reticence quickly gives way to the anger fuelling his grudge against the Galra, and Shiro gets used to Keith’s barking, aggressive narration. He learns that both of his parents are missing because of the Galra, and that the specific witch he’s intent on tracking down is named Haggar.

The way Keith hisses her name sends a shiver down his spine. Quietly, Shiro hopes that Haggar isn’t one of the Galra to greet them when they finally step on land.

“I’m sure she’ll tell us everything,” Keith spits, “Just run your arm through her a few times.”

Shiro blanches through the rest of the conversation, desperately trying to change the subject as it grows increasingly graphic. He finally manages to catch Keith’s attention when he brandishes a dried stick of pork.

Shiro breathes a sigh of relief when all violence is thrown aside in favour of discussing the exact types of cured meat Keith prefers with his bread. Hopefully, for everyone’s health and safety, Haggar is never to be seen.

\-----

Shiro is quickly disappointed. Haggar is very much present, and Keith is still hungry for blood.

But before that, stepping off the ship offers its own relief. The blissful nostalgia on Keith’s face as he looks around at a town he’s obviously familiar with is unexpected, but welcome.

Shiro follows Keith down a series of streets and alleyways to their destination, trusting him to know the way. But his confidence soon falters when Keith comes to a sudden stop, frowning at what looks like a regular butcher’s shop.

“Wh – What’s the matter?” Shiro ventures to ask after Keith stares unblinkingly for a full minute.

“No – I know it’s here – has to be –” Before Shiro can reply, Keith struts forward, brusquely addressing the shopkeeper, “What happened to the bakery here?”

The woman looks taken aback at Keith’s impatience.

“Bakery? The Crimson – something or other?” 

Keith nods sharply. “Lion.”

“That old thing? It closed decades ago. Did your mother or gramma tell you about it? You can find plenty other bakeries around here.”

Shiro chokes on a yelp when Keith stumbles backwards and onto his foot. “Um –” He holds out a hand to steady him, but Keith wrenches decisively out of his reach.

“W-We’re leaving!” His voice wavers.

“Keith?” Shiro follows at a wary distance as Keith backs out of the street, until the butchery is out of sight. 

“Decades? But –” Keith glances at Shiro in open questioning. “What year is it?”

“Fifty-eighth. Of Alfor’s rule.”

Keith visibly falters. “O-Oh.”

“What – where have you been? For decades.”

“You should’ve figured it out already,” Keith mutters, and Shiro nods slowly. 

Perhaps Keith had been trapped in the spirit world, or the dragon’s body, or something equally improbable. Shiro imagines returning to his hometown only to find out half a lifetime has gone by and rubs Keith’s bony shoulder in what he hopes is reassurance.

Keith shrugs him off after a quiet few seconds and reminds him, in a determined voice, of why they’re even here. 

“Let’s go find the Galra.”

\-----

The Galra are located in a village a walk away from the coastal town, Shiro soon finds out.

“Or at least it _was_ a village. Don’t know about now.” Keith grumbles darkly. 

Shiro stays silent, trying to avoid stepping into the path of his death-glare.

Apparently the Galran village is in walking distance because even dark wizards need access to the necessities delivered by ship. When they arrive at a thin path cutting through the trees, Keith gives his arm a sharp tug.

“Through here.”

The path ends at an empty clearing and Shiro peers around, confused. This glade is the result of their convoluted track through the forest?

"Keep walking," Keith tugs at his arm. "Through the glamour."

Shiro doesn't know what he's referring to, until he takes a few steps forwards and the air itself shimmers to reveal the entirety of the Galran village. His jaw drops. 

"The glamour hides them," Keith mutters, answering Shiro's unasked question.

_Them_ refer to the cluster of wooden buildings in front of them, all ramshackle roofs and doors and splintering planks. Keith looks as confused as he to find the Galra headquarters deserted and dilapidated.

"Wh – where is everyone?"

"Are you sure they're gone?" Shiro hisses. Keith's voice is abruptly loud in the windblown silence.

"We would see them if they were here."

He sounds disappointed, the fight leaving him as they tentatively walk down abandoned lanes. Each house has obviously been left to the elements, and each terse shake of Keith's head confirms that no one is hiding in any of the shadows. 

They don't check all the buildings, because Keith, frustrated, heads straight for the central square.

"They wouldn't abandon the manor, would they? That's the most important..." He mutters to himself, while Shiro focuses on avoiding the stray tiles and beams littered across the floor. Said manor is impressive, but hollowed out by the abandoned air that lingers around the rotting eaves and damaged windows.

Keith confidently strides up to the front door where Shiro would have skirted around the side, weapon at the ready. He raises a cautious hand as Keith strains to pull the heavy door open.

"Wait – "

The sound dies in his throat as a wave of musty air rushes over them, bursting from the shadowed interior of the building. Shiro sees a large expanse of wooden floor, unevenly dusty and dirty and leading to distant doors within.

He bristles. Usually, manors remind him of the looming presence of the rich on distant hills – but this mansion reduces him to terror. He quietly follows Keith’s loud footsteps through the empty rooms.

“What are we looking for?” Shiro whispers as they’re picking through the third room they come across.

“Seeing if any of those Galra _scum_ are still around.” Keith loudly smacks the wall and Shiro’s heart leaps out of his chest at the sound. “Oi – anyone?”

“Shh! Do you –”

“Want them to hear? _Yes._ If there’s even anyone in here to hear us.”

_Still._ Shiro winces at each of Keith’s obstinately loud footsteps, his hand shakily poised to strike at every fluttering particle of dust and creaky floorboard.

Unfortunately for Shiro, their awaited opportunity presents itself with a scratchy shuffle of footsteps from a nearby room. Keith comes to an immediate standstill beside him, dagger trembling, as they wait for the unknown third party to appear.

They’re diminutive, is Shiro’s first observation, draped in faded robes and head shrouded in a hood. Shiro’s hand comes alive before the hunched figure has fully entered the room.

He takes a warning step forward at the same time as Keith beside him brandishes a dagger, and they wait with bated breath as the person continues to shuffle towards them, before stopping a short distance away.

A gnarled hand reaches out to pull down the hood and Keith chokes on an outburst when the diminutive Galra before them reveals herself to be a wizened old lady, wrinkled face framed with lanky white hair. Her eyes are clouded over with white, but she turns with surprising precision to stare at Keith. 

“Keith –” 

Shiro startles at her creaking voice, while Keith beside him leaps a mile into the air. He darts a nervous look at Shiro before turning back to address the – witch, as Shiro soon finds out.

Keith growls, a low guttural sound. “Haggar.”

“Have you returned to keep an old lady company?” She sounds genuinely curious, and Shiro can’t help but hear in her the endearing local grandmas who crowd the early morning markets.

“No! I’m – fuck you! How many years has it been since – since –” Keith breaks off, suddenly lost for words.

“Since I cursed you? Too many years … I’m afraid I don’t remember.” She takes a hobbling step forward and the dagger in Keith’s hand shakes in warning. 

“Don’t remember? _Don’t remember?_ You ruined my fucking life over nothing!”

Shiro flinches with each hateful word Keith spits, but Haggar is unruffled.

“Maybe…” She mumbles thoughtfully.

Keith remains silent, on the verge of leaping at her but waiting for an answer – one that Haggar doesn’t give.

“What are you doing here?” She asks in wonderment, milky eyes peering curiously at Keith. “Have I died – to join you?”

“I’m not dead!” Keith sputters, “I broke the curse – and you’d better give me some answers or you’ll wish you were dead.”

Silently, Shiro wishes she’ll comply and they can find what they’re after. He doesn’t want to watch Keith unleash all of his fury on the shrivelled woman before them.

“Broke the curse?” She repeats, blinking at Keith before suddenly turning to Shiro. “You – young man, what happened to your arm?”

“Quintessence poisoning,” Keith answers curtly. He takes another step, to position himself in front of Shiro. “It’s why we’re here – what are the Galra doing? Why was there a tainted artefact in the middle of nowhere?” He gestures wildly at nothing and everything. “And where is everyone?”

Haggar’s face creases further. “Quintessence … you can control your hand? The fact you’re not dead …”

Shiro wordlessly nods. She tries to step closer to inspect his hand, but Keith’s dagger is at her throat in a flash. 

“Back _off!_ ”

She doesn’t budge an inch, peering at his forearm in deep thought. Keith yanks it out of her line of sight without hesitation.

“Leave him alone! And tell me everything you know about the Galra.”

“Persistent as always…” she chuckles to herself, shaking her head and taking a step back. “Do you want to sit? We musn’t talk standing up like this.”

She turns and walks towards a shadowed doorway, and the pair of them follow at a wary distance. Keith grips Shiro’s arm in warning and looks up at him with a deep crease in his brow.

“Don’t just let her look at your arm like that!” He whispers sharply. “You don’t know the danger she poses.” Shiro stares.

“I can use my arm against her. I think you suggested that yourself.”

“Yes, but –”

Keith breaks off when Haggar sits down on a faded chair, the frame creaking beneath her. They are in some kind of side room, with wide windows to let the sun in, and the muted yellow glow makes the mansion look a little more alive, a little more lived-in.

She makes herself comfortable and gestures at two other chairs by the opposite wall, but neither of them choose to sit. Nonetheless, Haggar starts to talk.

“The Galra …” she muses, “I was Galra, once. Am Galra.” She sighs to herself. “They’ve left this place, a long time ago. No point in bringing a blind old piece of baggage along.”

“Left? To where?” Keith interjects sharply.

“I don’t know. I wanted to stay, take care of the manor. Then one day and they’d all gone. No one left.” Her voice is mournful; ages-old.

Shiro can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for her and wonders how long she’s been alone. But Keith is undeterred, determined in his anger to wring what answers he can out of Haggar.

“So they disappeared without you? I don’t believe it. Is this an ambush? Tell me where they’ve gone or – or –” He shakes in fury.

“I’m no one important anymore, Keith. It’s been a long time since then. And these eyes –” She stares at them with an empty gaze. “They don’t need me anymore.”

“I-I don’t believe it,” Keith repeats, sounding more uncertain than before.

“Keith.” Haggar says, slow and reassuring, “What do you wish to know? Or will you be willing to answer my questions, first?”

Keith brushes off her suggestion with a sharp shake of his head. “Tell me why a quintessence-poisoned artefact appeared near my friend’s farm.”

“Appeared?” Haggar leans forward, directing her milky gaze at Shiro. She peers keenly at his face.

With a curt nod, Shiro briefly outlines what had occurred before he stumbled across the mysterious boulder at the centre of his affliction. She shakes her head in the same concerned way as Keith when he mentions touching it, and Shiro feels foolish. 

“An explosion … did it fall from the heavens? Burst from the ground?” Haggar makes a puzzled sound.

Keith snaps his teeth, agitated. “Just tell us what the Galra are planning. Not the what ifs.”

“I don’t know.” Before Keith can start throttling her, Haggar continues, “Maybe … they are planning some kind of large-scale poisoning? Have you heard of other incidents?”

Shiro shakes his head in a definite no, but Keith looks like he’s searching through the edges of his memory. 

“No,” he says after a moment.

“Then a singular accident? Perhaps – perhaps –”

She pauses, head drooping heavy and her hair falling in two lanky curtains. The two of them strain to listen, waiting for her creaking voice to resume. Shiro is first to break the silence, awkwardly clearing his throat.

Haggar shakes her head muzzily and blearily looks at each of them in turn. “What?”

“Tell us why there’s quintessence-tainted boulders popping up,” Keith reminds her promptly. “How can I stop the Galra –”

Before Shiro can even frown at the absurdity of his question, Haggar lets out a hacking laugh. 

“Hah!” Haggar’s mouth stretches in a jeering grin. “You? Stop the Galra? Who do you think you are, _Keith_? Against hundreds of sorcerers?” She breaks off into a hiccupping laugh.

From his breathing alone, Keith sounds mad, and Shiro quickly closes a hand around a shaking forearm before he slaps Haggar. Keith stares at him in stunned silence.

“What –” 

“I think we should let her speak, if we’re to find out anything useful.”

Haggar nods sagely to herself. “You’d do good to listen sometimes, Keith. Like … to my question: why haven’t you changed one bit, while time has eaten away at me?”

“What? I don’t know what your curse did.” Keith bristles, his arm stiffening in Shiro’s loose grasp. “Just tell us what the Galra are doing and how to stop them.”

Shiro doesn’t want to face off against an entire population of evil magicians. Keith’s words are starting to sound more and more farfetched – and he just yearns to return home, despite the lack of answers. 

She scoffs and waves dismissively. “Don’t be so foolish. Even if I knew what the Galra are doing, you stand no chance of stopping them. Not if they are intent on wreaking destruction.”

Her tone grows steadily ominous, and Shiro swallows audibly. Keith, however, doesn’t appear deterred.

“I can pick them off one by one. Starting with you.”

Shiro had forgotten the dagger still nestled comfortably in Keith’s hand, but he’s quickly reminded of its existence when Keith points the weapon at Haggar. The sharp edges glint cruelly.

“Keith!” Shiro makes an abortive motion, and Keith shoots him an annoyed look.

“What? She’s useless to us.”

The ruthless sheen to Keith’s eyes scares him. Panicking, Shiro glances at Haggar, but the witch looks serene, at odds to Keith’s aggressive stance.

“There’s no need to … kill her, is there? I don’t think she’s the threat you made her out to be, and there’s no point in mindless violence.” He trails off, growing uncertain when Keith’s frown only deepens.

“What do you care about what happens to her?”

“It’s not _her_ – I don’t want you to –”

Keith growls.

Just as Shiro thinks he can see Keith’s stance waver, metal streaks before his eyes, the dagger lunging forward and towards the prone figure before them. A yell breaks in his throat, but Haggar is faster, disappearing in a murky wash of smoke. She reappears unharmed a metre away, and suddenly Shiro starts to see why Keith talks of in her in almost-reverent fear.

But just as quickly as she appears, Keith’s moving, arm a blur as he aims another strike at her chest. Shiro hears more than sees the resulting injury, a furious screech that prickles the back of his neck. Keith’s entire body tenses for another strike, dominant arm poised.

The bitter stench of blood is already seeping through the room, and as Keith lunges forwards once more, Haggar disappears from between his fingers. Shiro hears the thump of a body somewhere upstairs, and before Keith can follow, he rushes forwards, wary of the dagger still trembling in Keith’s grip.

“… Keith?” It takes Keith an age to turn to him, eyes dark with unidentified emotion. For a brief moment, Shiro feels cowed, like he’s half of Keith’s size and not the other way round, but Keith’s voice is fragile. Brittle. 

“What?”

“A-Are you okay? Is she … and your – the –” He gestures hopelessly at the dagger, but Keith isn’t listening to him, stalking away to wipe his blade on the nearest tapestry before sheathing it with a neat _clink!_

Keith lets out an irritated hiss. “Where’d she teleport to this time?”

Before he can dash from the room and deeper into the manor, Shiro raises his voice. “You already injured her, right? Do you really need to – need to –”

“Finish off the job? _Yes._ ” Keith’s emphatic snarl is sharper than his blade, but Shiro tries not to recoil. He steps closer, to look into the narrow pinpricks of Keith’s pupils.

“Why? Killing her won’t fix any problems.”

“Killing her will make me feel better!” Keith yells, backing out of the tense space between them. Shiro closes the gap once again.

“No, it won’t.”

Keith bristles as if deeply offended. “Don’t talk to me like that. And don’t tell me what to do.”

Fine.

Haggar didn’t have the answers they wanted, and Shiro doubts murdering her will bring more good than bad. He makes to walk back out the front door – because if Keith is hellbent on violently taking down every Galra they can find, he’d rather prefer a mimicry of a peaceful life away from here. 

Keith stops him before he can take the final step through the doorway. “Wait.”

“I don’t need to be here. Go after her.” He shoos Keith back inside with a careless wave of his hand, but a smattering of footsteps follows behind him.

“I – Don’t – don’t you want to fix your hand?”

“ _Amputation_ , right? What does Haggar have to do with that?”

Keith is silent and Shiro feels bafflingly lost. He takes the few steps to exit the manor while Keith lingers on the threshold, fingers itching at his dagger and eyes wild and panicky.

“You can’t just leave! We agreed to this.”

To be fair, Shiro hadn’t counted on murder being part of the plan. And he’d been wary of the ‘interrogating Galras’ part to begin with. In a rare show of immaturity (Shiro likes to pride himself on being mature, but recent events have thrown that out the window), he throws his hands up in exasperation and strides back out into the maze of ramshackle houses surrounding them.

He doesn’t look back, even if looking to Keith for directions back to town is his only chance at finding the way. Sure enough, it doesn’t take long for the paths to twist into devious circles. Sighing, Shiro stills.

Keith is probably stalking after Haggar now, or worse, burying his blade in his unfortunate victim. Better to leave him to his own devices, and quickly leave the hideout.

Shiro scratches his head after another wrong attempts (why are all the streets identical?) when he hears a quiet, “You’re heading in the wrong direction.” His heart stutters a nervous beat.

As calmly as he can, Shiro turns away from the impassable wall of forest before him. Keith stares back at him, expression irritated and fingers curled into tight fists. His dagger rests innocently in its sheath and Shiro snaps his attention back up to Keith’s face.

His mouth is set in a firm line.

Perplexed, Shiro raises a slow eyebrow. “Then where to? Hunting down more Galra?”

“No –” Keith sounds annoyed. “You want to leave, right? It’s this way.”

Shiro’s puzzled with his sudden reappearance, but if Keith can lead him out of this decaying patch of hell, then he’ll follow. Their conversation (for how long it lasted) comes to an impassive standstill.

Keith stays silent all the way back to the port, until they find a bare patch of land by the road. Shiro sits down and Keith follows, after a second.

“So,” Shiro finally prompts, “What was that?”

“What was what?” Keith calmly addresses him.

“Was she really that threatening – that you – you had to _kill_ her?”

“No, but you know the horrible things she’s done. She deserved it.” Keith’s voice is level, calmly satisfied. 

“She –” Shiro raises his voice, “She was defenceless when we walked in!” 

“Just because she looks old and helpless – I don’t know why you’d trust her over what I told you.” Keith stares at him with piercing eyes, angry but not enough to unsheathe his dagger and make at Shiro with the intent to kill.

Of course, after this, Shiro is unsure what to even expect. 

“You spoke of revenge, but I never thought you were serious about carrying it out.” Shiro gestures in exasperation. 

Keith’s stare turns dull. “Really? She taught children black magic. She trained _killers_. She experimented on humans. And she’d experiment on _you_ if she got the chance.”

He pauses to take a breath; needles sharp eyes into Shiro’s flesh.

“Does that mean you thought I was joking about the Galra? And the fact that your arm is going to _kill_ you?”

Shiro swallows the sudden lump in his throat. “Not exactly.” His skin itches under Keith’s neutral gaze. “But why should I start trusting what a murderer has to say?”

The lump returns with Keith’s precise, no-nonsense words. “You should look at yourself first.”

Shiro briefly maintains eye-contact before he dips his head, chagrined. “Fine. Just … help me find a way to fix this disease and I’ll leave you to it.” He doesn’t want to say amputation, not when there might be other options.

“I’ll help, but only if you stop thinking Haggar’s some kind of pitiful old lady.”

Shiro narrows his eyes; exhales acquiescence. “I know. I guess for cursing you … she deserved it?” 

“Of course.” Keith replies curtly, a thinly-veiled frustration lifting off his back.

“So … my hand?” Shiro prompts after a silent moment.

“Later.”

_Fine._

“Anyway,” Shiro tries for a conversational tone, “Why did you come running back after I left you with Haggar?”

Keith stares at him. “Because you couldn’t find your way out of the forest and were wandering around like a headless chicken.”

Shiro frowns.

\-----

The bickering finally slows when both realise the sun is hanging high in the sky and the far-off rumbling sound is actually from Keith’s belly. Shiro smiles at the way Keith lunges for his pack, digging through it for the first edible thing he can find.

Keith makes a nasty face at him when he catches Shiro eyeing his piece of preserved meat, and he can’t help the giggle that emerges.

“What?” Keith splutters.

“Nothing.” Shiro sighs, tired of their previous animosity. “Before we – I don’t know – we lunge at each other like wild cats again, do you want to look around town?”

_Even if it’s been decades since you last visited._ And that leads him to another question – of how exactly Haggar’s curse affected him and left him ageless. And why Keith was subjected to the curse in the first place. Haggar and Keith’s relationship leaves Shiro scratching his head.

He doesn't bring any of his concerns up, not yet, because Keith perks up at the prospect of wandering about the town. Shiro eyes the change in demeanour in hopeful confusion.

They turn away from the docks and back towards the maze of streets and alleyways, Shiro padding down unfamiliar paths behind a content Keith.

He sees the drooping facade of an old building; a misshapen oak tree that Keith reminisces about; a set of unevenly-set steps leading up the hillside.

Keith pauses by the steps.

“I - can we visit my mother?”

“Of course.” He's surprised Keith's determination to apprehend the Galra took priority over seeing his mother.

A path intercepts their journey upwards, and Keith jogs along it, stooping to pick a flower from the ground before the line of gravestones comes into view.

Oh. 

Stiffening perceptibly, Shiro follows at a respectable distance as Keith seeks out a small overgrown plaque on the ground and bends to set the pale flower down.

"I'm sorry." Shiro says quietly.

Keith shakes himself. "You don't need to be. It's already been fifty-something years, after all." His voice is tinged bitter.

He kneels in front of one piece of slate in the ground out of many, brushing stray leaves and twigs from its surface until Shiro can make out the slight shadow of carved lettering.

Keith's incoherent mumbles are a constant rhythm in the backdrop, and Shiro tries not to focus on his words. Better to leave him to his own business...

The scrawled letters on each and every headstone have blurred into nonsense under Shiro’s staring before Keith finally stands up.

"Sorry about that." Keith brushes dirt off his knees, eyes visibly downcast as they leave the graveyard.

"I don't mind - it's important you remember her."

"Mm."

The quiet respectful breeze in the graveyard creeps into the distance between them; Shiro is reluctant to interrogate Keith about Haggar, and Keith is more subdued than usual.

He fumbles for something to say when the silence grows too thick.

"I-If you don't mind me asking, can you tell me more about your mother? Did you grow up here with her?"

Surprisingly, Keith responds to his question. "I – kind of. I think we lived out on the edges of town. For a few years. She was – nice. She was a nice mother."

Keith clams up after that, but Shiro didn’t expect much else. The town rustles around them, on the edge of hearing and enough to muffle Keith’s silent footsteps.

“Where next?” Shiro asks eventually. 

“The Galra?” Keith raises an eyebrow. “Or somewhere to stay?” He adds, when he sees Shiro’s expression sour.

Shiro sighs. “Not the Galra, of course. And somewhere where my hand can be fixed.”

“Hm.” Keith ignores his suggestion entirely. “How about … we stay out in the open? Or in one of the abandoned Galra houses?”

His calm expression quirks into a tiny grin when Shiro stares at him in annoyance.

“Under the eaves of any store? Unless you want your own bespoke bed and feather mattress.”

Shiro chuckles. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Keith harrumphs but they come to an eventual agreement – to find lodging where they can, and for now to soak in the afternoon sun with their legs dangling off the nearest pier.

They share a leftover piece of tough jerky between them, Keith focusing intently on squinting at the setting sun, and Shiro on studying the creases by Keith’s eyes. 

Those eyes suddenly turn to look at him, and Shiro snaps his head away in shock. A stinging slap lands on his wrist before he can begin to comprehend what Keith has just said.

“Oi – don’t eat it all!” The jerky is snatched from between his fingers and Shiro frowns as Keith digs ruthless teeth into the sticky meat, focus already back on the dimming sun.

Keith lets out a satisfied sound. “Mm – here, you can have the rest.”

The last scrawny fragment is pitiable, but Shiro takes it anyway. Seeing Keith’s content expression, he attempts to finally breach the subject been worrying over the entire day.

"I'm - curious about your relationship with Haggar."

Keith is completely silent, but Shiro continues.

"Why does she know you? Why did she curse you?"

Beside him, Keith steels himself, taking a few jagged breaths. He doesn’t look at Shiro.

"I guess I should've explained everything by now, right?" He laughs weakly. "About the Galra. About myself."

Shiro nods. "Yeah."

“Mm.” Keith kicks his legs; looks at them in thought. “I – was born Galra. Galra father, mother – though she wanted to leave. Guess my dad wasn't that great a guy if she fled just because of him. Anyway, I grew up a ways away, hiding from the Galra until they found me and took me back. And found her and –”

He gestures wordlessly, and Shiro slings a comforting arm over his shoulder before he can give it too much thought. Keith makes a soft noise.

“And so I grow up to be one of those Galra bastards, y'know – casting the spells, the curses. Potions. Quintessence. Until my friend my … best friend, he gets a poorly-cast spell to the face.”

Keith is tense beside him, voice heavy.

“It wasn't his fault, really. None of us were great at spells and they _were_ dangerous. But then he gets a faceful of quintessence and it - it kills him on the spot. Like your hand – but spreading in seconds, and –”

Unconsciously, Shiro's affected hand curls into a fist, and he can almost taste that familiar hiss of purple light before he consciously shuts his hand down. Focuses on Keith's story.

“I don't think I was being stupid then, to steal Haggar's knife. Rumours say it can bring back the dead, even in the hands of any amateur.”

Shiro bites back a shudder.

"I managed to steal it, of course, but not before Haggar immediately noticed and cursed me to a lifetime of living as a horrific beast.” Unexpectedly, Keith's words aren’t filled with hate. Just a weary sort of acceptance.

“A dragon?” Shiro prompts.

“Yeah. I’m surprised you put up with me despite knowing that since the start.”

Shiro isn’t sure when he’d come to terms with Keith being _the_ dragon, but it wasn’t from the very beginning.

Instead, he asks, “How did you break the curse? Even Haggar seemed curious.”

"I had to've died, right? Guess Haggar didn't count on resuscitation spells when she cursed me."

Shiro stays silent, thinking back to the panicked ordeal of carrying Keith's injured body - no, corpse - to anyone who could've helped.

"I'm glad you're alive. For what it's worth." He says after a moment.

"Mm." Keith hums. 

The sound is barely an acknowledgement, more a disembodied thrum in Keith’s throat. Shiro turns away, assuming the conversation finished. Keith’s next mutter catches him by surprise.

“Why do you care?”

The expanse of sea in front of them isn’t loud enough to mask Keith’s question, but Shiro trips on a reply. “What –”

“Nothing!” Keith snaps, just as Shiro blurts: “Why shouldn’t I?”

They break off into tense silence until Keith awkwardly clears his throat. His eyes, frantic, scan their surroundings before honing in on Shiro’s arm.

"Is that still spreading?"

The sight of Shiro’s diseased hand brings back decades-old memories of his friend, but Keith swallows down the nausea and focuses on the present.

The quintessence poisoning is contained unlike anything he's ever seen before, and he silently praises Lance for his efforts. He thumbs at the brown edge of the border on Shiro's arm.

If he shuts his eyes and concentrates, the energy pulsing under Shiro's skin feels crackly and alive. The last thing he wants, though, is to relive his years of handling quintessence. 

Keith retracts his hand after a brief moment.

“You should do something about it.” He attempts a helpful tone, one that Shiro rebuffs with irritation.

“Of course I will.” Shiro’s voice, previously calm, is lined with undercurrents of stress. “You said amputation, right?”

Keith nods. “There’s no other way to make it disappear, once it’s settled this deep. Even the most skilled Galra, they – I think they magicked away part of a limb to stop the poison from spreading.”

It was the only cure that worked on the test subjects, Keith remembers observing. He hopes the process Shiro goes through will be less painful.

“Makes sense. I guess.” Sighing, Shiro tears his gaze away from his hand. “Better get it chopped off as soon as possible.”He chuckles humourlessly, a loud enough sound that doesn’t mask the hiss that has Keith jerking away in shock.

Shiro’s hand. Glowing, and as of yet unnoticed by the man himself. Of course, it doesn’t take long for him to realise Keith is sprawled on the dock beside him and staring terrified at his hand.

“Shit!” He grits his teeth and the glow disappears, but the charred print of his hand on the wooden dock remains. “How did I not feel that?” 

Keith remains a safe distance away even after he’s certain the threat is safely contained.

“I told you it’s dangerous – it’s probably getting harder and harder to control.”

Shiro’s anguished expression paired with the slight beading of sweat at his temples is more than enough of an answer. A grim satisfaction wells up in Keith’s chest.


	4. Chapter 4

Keith mentions a renowned local prosthetist, and they agree to stay a while longer to pay him a visit. Shiro eyes the surgeon a street away in nervous worry as Keith leads him to the destination, only for them to discover the specialist Keith remembers has been replaced by his son, a rotund, jovial man who has his measuring tape out and ready.

“Welcome! How may I help you?” 

“Who are you?” Keith snaps accusingly.

Startled, the man takes a physical step backwards. “I’m … Hunk. Prosthetist and owner of this store.”

“I knew your father,” Keith blurts, remembering an entirely different man and a patchier storefront.

Hunk raises both eyebrows. “Oh! Well – he’s long, uh, gone now. But don’t worry, I can get you fixed up a new arm or leg in no time. Now which one of you is it?”

Shiro stiffly raises his gloved hand into view, uncomfortable with explaining his condition.

“… Only after I’ve gotten it amputated. Of course.”

“Okay then.” Hunk’s smile slips a little from his face. “Do you want a design by tomorrow? I can take your measurements now and half the payment. The design will be ready for tomorrow and the actual thing in a couple of days.”

Visibly lost, Shiro looks to Keith, who peers at the prosthetist in suspicion. “How much is half payment? And shouldn’t you take measurements once he’s properly amputated?”

“That works, yeah.”

The discussion is swiftly over, and Keith firmly tugs Shiro away from the shop and closer to the surgeon’s.

“So?”

Shiro gulps, a strained noise that shifts the entire column of his throat, but he nods, eventually. "I guess I have to, don't I?"

"I'll stay with you. For the surgery." Keith offers.

Shiro rubs the back of his neck. "You don't have to. But thanks."

Already feeling a little nervous, Keith walks alongside Shiro towards the imposing building, entwined snake painted on its side.

He’s not the one undergoing the surgery, but Keith feels his chest tighten up all the same. He fights back the nausea pooling under his ribcage.

He could just leave, avoid the bloodshed (in favour of spilling Galra blood), but Keith follows Shiro to their destination. It’s easier to stay, after all. (He’ll leave Shiro … later.)

Keith slips numb fingers into Shiro’s human hand.

\-----

When they finally enter the building and Shiro explains his situation in a wavering but confident voice, he’s led off behind a crude partition.

Keith hastily follows. He bobs his head, promising to stay out of the way of the sharp implements, and settles by Shiro's side, watching with a dry mouth as they lay his arm flat on a table. The cloying scent in the room is enough to make him gag.

The unaffected section of Shiro’s arm is deftly secured between two stained blocks of wood before he can think about backing out. Trying not to put too much thought into it, Keith reaches for Shiro’s free hand, digging his fingertips into the tense flesh and watching his face contort from nervous to pained. The aforementioned sharp implements look a lot more menacing in the hands of the surgeon.

"Don't stare," Keith mutters, snapping Shiro's attention away from the surgeon eyeballing his arm and positioning the saw.

"Relax –" Keith tries again, but his own tension is nothing compared to how tight Shiro is suddenly strung, chin tucked against his chest and eyes clenched shut as they draw first blood.

The cut has to be above the diseased area for it to actually stop spreading, but Keith wonders if taking the saw midway through the poisoned flesh would've made the process a little more bearable for Shiro.

His fingers are starting to hurt in Shiro's death grip, and Keith leans closer, murmuring quiet nonsense into his ear that Shiro can’t even hear over his own agonised noises.

_Thunk!_

Silence rings in his ears when the wet grating noises finally end. Shiro whimpers.

And then it's all over, his once-limb a sad mess on the floor and the surgeon hurriedly cauterising his arteries closed and wrapping the new stump thrice over in protective gauze.

An assistant bounds over, directing her words at Shiro despite the trance he's sunk into.

"Take this for faster healing, this to stop infection, and this for pain."

Keith takes the three minute bottles with their curlicued labels and squints at them, stowing them away into the empty space of his bag.

He gives Shiro a moment, before leaning over and peering at his still-agonised expression.

"Are you okay?"

"Nn -"

"I – We – Sorry, Shiro. I think we need to move." Keith apologetically mumbles before tugging Shiro to his feet and draping his sole arm over his shoulder. An arm around his sturdy waist and Keith is haphazardly manoeuvring them back over the threshold of the shop and onto crowded streets.

Shiro is starting to weigh heavy on his shoulders, and Keith stares numbly at the buildings and people around them, brain whirring a mile a minute. Try as he might, he’s starting to feel a little lost, the unconscious form of his … _friend?_ beside him working up the panic in his mind as he tries to think of where they can stay. Where Shiro can heal.

His old house? – probably occupied. The Galra – too many old ghosts.

Deflating, Keith realises an inn is his only option and the only place he can access, provided he can pay up.

He'll find Shiro a bed, feed him, clean him up - and then, then they'll finally leave.

\-----

The innkeeper warily takes his small handful of coins and one ruby, shooing Keith away to a spare room before Shiro can collapse on them both.

His muscles ache by the time Shiro is laid out on the mattress, and Keith inspects the bottles again.

... Maybe he should feed one to Shiro first, if his groaning and twisting is any indication.

"Hey. Shiro. How are you feeling?" Keith peers at Shiro's face, tracking one tortured droplet of sweat before he focuses on Shiro's own eyes. His eyelids shift to open with obvious effort.

"Hurts. Dizzy,” he rasps.

Keith brings one bottle into his view. "Drink this? It's supposed to help with the pain."

"Mm."

Moving him to an upright position is a difficult task when Shiro forgets he only has one working arm and nearly unbalances trying to prop himself up on two.

"You'll have your other arm back in no time - we're visiting the prosthetist as soon as possible."

"Oh. Yeah." Shiro forces a lopsided smile that quickly fades when he tastes the thick viscous liquid in the bottle.

"Ugh - what _is_ that?"

Keith chides. "Good for you."

"Doesn't taste like it."

Shiro doesn't finish the entire bottle, and Keith pulls it away after seeing his disgust.

"Do you want half of the other ones, too? They're for, uh, bleeding. And infections."

"Guess I should, shouldn't I?" The wince on his face doesn’t disappear as Keith lifts each bottle to his lips, Shiro sipping the bare minimum before turning away.

"You can have the rest at night. Sleep now – I'll go get food."

Keith slips away to the sound of Shiro’s peaceful breathing.

The abandoned Galra hideout lies within easy reach, but the urge to hunt down the rest of them had faded ever since Keith’s dagger sunk into Haggar’s chest with satisfying give. Revenge has disappeared to the back of his mind, insignificant in comparison to the desire to pay Shiro back in kind.

And so he spends the rest of his daytime selling the minerals he finds and spending the money on filling both of their stomachs. Shiro especially, considering the potions he’s already ingested.

Thankfully, he returns to Shiro conscious. Tired but sitting upright, Shiro mumbles a soft welcome as Keith re-enters the room toting a stuffed pack.

"I got dinner. How's your arm?"

"Hurts." Shiro gingerly moves his stump, and Keith feels a pang of guilt at the pain in his eyes.

"Did the potions help?"

Shiro dips his head in a shallow nod.

"That's good." Keith briefly considers shelling out for more potions, before his logical side shuts the idea down. Shiro can only handle so many in the span of a few days.

He sits down on the edge of the occupied bed, for once not fighting for more space, and rifles through his bag.

"Do you want to eat first? Bandages and potions later."

"Yeah," Shiro says with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. Keith stares through his cracking façade, confused. "Gotta fill up that bottomless pit of yours before doing anything else."

Keith's worried look doesn't waver. "Is bread ... and meat and cheese okay?

He hands Shiro a portion of each, startling when Shiro lets out an appreciative noise.

"Wow - you didn't need to buy the fancy stuff! Thanks, Keith."

Keith's cheeks darken. "It's not all that fancy," he mutters, biting into his own stringier bit of meat. The bread is gritty between his molars.

"Still," Shiro says once he's devoured half of his food, "you'd have to pay a pretty penny to buy all of this."

With his belly partially filled, Shiro is already a lot more alive and talkative. He continues, with an almost natural smirk, "Come on, Keith, tell me where you magic that money from."

A lump of food goes down the wrong tube at the sound of his name and Keith coughs, fighting to maintain his composure as he decides whether or not to tell Shiro.

"It's ... not stealing, that's for sure. Just a bit of sacrifice." A bit of ritualistic sacrifice that Keith remembers from his younger days.

Shiro looks a little wary. "Sacrifice?"

"A bird. Or rabbit. Nothing _big_."

Shiro's sly mutter of _I sure hope not_ doesn't go unnoticed, and Keith leans towards him in annoyance, staying mindful of his injury.

"It's not _that_ horrific. The things the Galra have done would make you piss your pants in fear."

Shiro finishes off the rest of his food, ignoring him.

Watching him brush crumbs from the blanket draped across his lap, Keith startles with a sudden reminder. They’ve finished eating, but he’d spotted a special something in the market today. He dives for his bag. 

Keith re-emerges, plums clutched in hand. “Here – take this.”

“I – thank you.” Shiro careful cradles the fruit in his palm.

Keith bites into his own plum in response, savouring tart juice on his tongue. Days of crunching into half-brown apples have a way of making anything taste delectable, though he barely tastes a thing for the speed at which he gobbles it down. The plum pit is aimed out of the window and Keith reaches for the bandages, the potions, the…

In contrast, Shiro beside him is the very picture of calm, taking a look at the bottles of potions while his plum disappears in slow contemplative bites. Keith forces himself to settle down.

Maybe it's his urge to return home – or, at least, Shiro's home. Or the sickening feeling he gets from seeing how unbalanced and uncomfortable Shiro looks without his right hand.

If only Shiro could heal at the speed with which quintessence devours living creatures.

He takes the seed pit from Shiro to deposit outside their window while the man stares at the thick contents of the first bottle before resolutely swallowing it down.

Keith winces for him.

"Maybe you should've had that plum afterwards," Keith comments when Shiro makes retching noises beside him.

"I'm a grown adult," he coughs, "I can handle a few potions."

"Even after you find out what's in them?" Keith grins at him, and Shiro's already pallor complexion whitens.

"No thanks."

Keith quietly hides the fact that potion-making had been his weakest skill and pulls ingredients from thin air. 

“Hmm ... toad slime. Fish eyeballs. Slimy –”

Shiro breaks into nervous laughter. “I've not been crunching into any eyeballs so far.”

“That's because they've been ground up.”

“Hmm.” Shiro considers the third bottle, winces, and hurriedly gulps it down.

"If it lets you sleep at night," Keith mutters nonchalantly. Shiro’s grimace forces a slight guilt through him.

Keith gestures at his injured arm. “We - I - should change the bandages.”

"Oh. Yeah.” Shiro lifts his right arm with a pained expression. 

Keith takes his time carefully peeling the bandages off, wrinkling his nose at the smell and trying not to shiver at the raw red flesh staring back at him. He lets out a soft exhale as Shiro winces and closes his eyes.

The fresh coat of ointment applies smoothly, and Keith's shaking fingers soon arrange new bandages around what remains of his arm.

"T-There. You should rest – I'll be back later."

Shiro looks close to fainting, but he interrupts Keith's progress to the door with a clear voice.

"Ah - is it possible to get a wet cloth? I feel a little gross..."

Keith thinks of how long Shiro's spent cooped up in this room today. Dutifully, he fetches a spare cloth from their room on his way to the communal tub downstairs, hurriedly douses himself with a quick scoop or two of murky water, and returns before Shiro falls asleep and expects Keith to wipe him down.

Keith shivers, and not because of the cold water dripping from his face. 

Luckily, Shiro is still awake, and takes the cold sopping cloth with more gratitude than Keith could ever muster. “Thanks. Um, can you –” He gestures at his tunic.

Keith panics. Just a little. 

Luck must be on Shiro’s side, because he avoids serious injury as Keith, red-faced, scrambles to remove his soiled clothes. Gulping, he takes the cloth back when Shiro points at a spot he can’t reach with his sole hand. 

Shiro’s skin is hot through the quickly warming cloth and Keith gives his back a quick swipe before pulling away.

“I-Is that okay?”

Shiro sighs with an exhale that rumbles through his body. He settles back down. “Would prefer the tub at home, but thank you for doing that.”

Keith wordlessly picks Shiro’s shirt up off the floor.

“Do you –”

They both pause.

Keith’s voice is strangled. “D-Do you –” He gulps with each shift of tan skin as Shiro shakes his head.

“I’ll put on a clean shirt tomorrow. I think there’s one in my pack…”

Keith limply sets the shirt back down, paralysed as he watches Shiro struggle to shift himself on the bed.

“Here – space for you.”

The space doesn’t look like much, not when Shiro’s width is taking up so much of the bed.

“Yeah – ah, I … can sleep on the floor. I don’t want to get in the way of –” Keith gestures at Shiro’s injury, neatly tucked beside him and admittedly out of the way. 

“I’ll be fine. And the floor is cold.”

He’d rather be cold and uncomfortable than uncomfortably hot, pressed against Shiro’s side. But the mattress is far more luxurious than the deck they’d spent the last week on, and the day’s work has worn him out. 

Keith reluctantly tucks himself in, grateful for the sudden darkness as Shiro extinguishes the candle beside him with a puff of air. In darkness, he imagines the body beside him safely clothed and eventually sinks into sleep.

At least, Keith assumes he slept because he wakes with the daylight that illuminates their room. The piercing light hurts his eyes and Keith is loath to get up, pressing his face to Shiro's shoulder instead.

Surprisingly, Shiro sits up first, rubbing at his right bicep as Keith mumbles sleepily beside him.

"Why y’ up? Injured..."

"I thought we had to get my arm looked at?"

Keith yawns instead of replying, turning his back to Shiro to catch some more shut-eye. Somewhere in the back of his mind there's the instinct to check up on the injured party beside him, but he goes back to sleep before it registers that Shiro is already up and walking around the room.

His wavering sense of responsibility (or Shiro's voice) wakes him up, jolting Keith alert and startling stupid noises from his mouth.

"Huh?"

Shiro peers kindly down at him, and Keith nearly thinks he's the injured one. His brain fumbles to make sense of what's happening.

"U-Uh. Your ... arm?"

Shiro gives him a lopsided smile. "Still hurts. But it's bearable. No infection, I don't think."

Keith rubs the grit out of his eyes. 

"That's good."

A grimy texture to the bed eventually encourages him to get up.

They make it down to Hunk's sooner rather than later, the prosthetist greeting them with a harried but wide smile.

“Hey! I'm a little busy –” He gestures to the workspace behind him littered with designs and prototypes, “but what can I do for you today?”

Shiro's arm is noticeable from a mile away when his sleeves are cropped short, and it doesn't take more than a word before Hunk has his measuring string looped around the stump and a stubby pencil hard at work in his hand.

Shiro's twitches and winces don't go unnoticed by Keith, and he stares stonily at Hunk’s rapid movements.

“That's been newly amputated, you know,” Keith cuts in sharply. He inwardly grins when Hunk visibly falters.

"Right, of course! I'm sorry – I hope I wasn't too rough..."

Shiro shakes his head with measured politeness. "It's okay."

"Not like we didn't tell you yesterday," Keith mutters, and Shiro shoots him a look. Keith clams up.

"Thank you very much, Hunk." Shiro says once they're done deciding on the design, herding Keith away with a commanding authority. He frowns down at Keith, the very picture of controlled. Keith can’t believe he’d been bed-ridden just earlier. "No need to be rude to the nice man."

"It's not my fault he's pushing you around like that and hurting you."

"It didn't hurt all that much."

Keith frowns but doesn't reply. Shiro ought to be grateful for the concern. In fact, if Keith were his past self, he would've vanished already, taking the money he's been spending on Shiro and burying the truth under layers of avoidance. 

A sign of weakness, perhaps, that he's stuck around, but he'll never admit to the comfort Shiro provides just by existing beside him. And reassurance, from watching him manoeuvre his now-healthy arm into the metal prosthetic.

Free from the Galra, Shiro’s only aim is to return home. And Keith – ?

"Thanks for everything.” Shiro’s tone is sincere. “But let me buy my own ride back this time?"

Shiro’s voice is hopeful, appreciative, and nothing like the distressed noise that leaves Keith’s throat.

“Can’t I come with you?”

Hadn’t they … agreed on this? Keith isn’t sure, but Shiro should know that his hometown is meaningless to him now, nothing but dead memories.

“No, I – I meant I can pay for my own fare. And you yours. You’re coming with me, right?”

“Yes –” Keith blurts, his own excitement catching himself by surprise. “Of course.” He schools his face into a controlled expression, but his happiness is obvious enough that Shiro returns the smile, pausing to adjust the joints of his prosthetic and lightly clapping a curled hand onto Keith’s shoulder.

“That’s good. And I need someone to help me explain everything to my mother. Or help hold her when she faints from shock.” Shiro grimaces, but his tone is warm.

“Of course.”

_Of course_ – his mother. Who is much more suited to caring for Shiro’s arm if it acts up. Keith carefully pries the crude mimic of a hand off his shoulder, lightly inspecting the neat metal joints and straightening each finger. The sheet metal slides smoothly, delicate and thin unlike the reinforced brace that runs further up his arm and is secured with a strap around his shoulder.

A little clunky, but the quintessence is no longer a threat, if the healthy pink under his bandages is any indication. And Shiro still has use of both hands.

Keith threads his fingers between stiff metal and looks back up at Shiro. “Let’s go?”

The ships greet them, coloured sails fluttering in an ever-shifting line as new ships arrive and others depart. A little asking around soon reveals the way home - to Shiro's home, and they rest on the deck in the meantime, staring off into the horizon and imagining the shadowy shapes of familiar landmasses.

"What do you think I'll be able to do with this hand?" Shiro's expression is lopsided, hopeful but worried at the same time, and Keith thinks.

Keith had pretended to be unaware of the nature of Shiro's work before they'd left, of dragging carcasses back late afternoon and hefting sacks of unknown meat down to the butchers in town, of taking down creatures with a weapon and a neat stab at the neck. But the smell had been enough of an indication, the quintessence-charged burns obvious on the poor animals.

He wonders what the shops thought about it.

"Can you still hold a crossbow and load bolts into it? Your joints should be sturdy enough."

"I know."

"Or help me with the sacrificial rituals?"

Shiro eyes his bag in annoyance, and Keith knows he's thinking about the bulging wallet within. The local shops already know him as the stranger who constantly offers them masses upon masses of precious stones. Maybe he's already exhausted two counties' worth of demand for the rocks, but if he can walk away a richer man, then so be it.

Shiro's expression forces him to reconsider his future career. 

"I can try another Galra spell." 

"You can help me on the farm," Shiro decides. "But no witchcraft allowed."

"Why?"

"You'll spook my mum."

The mother who's stayed central to Shiro's motivations, evidently. Keith can understand. Sort of. Visiting the grave had elicited nothing but misery and the faintest memories of the past.

Deep inside, he hopes for some sort of recognition when he sees Shiro's mother, of seeing his own family within her, but he knows it's an unrealistic expectation.

He holds onto Shiro instead. There's something there, of buried past meeting buried present, of bestial monster and monstrous affliction.

He’s holding on to a piece of Shiro, and helped save his life. That's enough, isn't it?

"I can help on the farm," Keith begins tentatively. "Is there much for me to do?"

"Of course! Especially since I've left for so long..." His joy breaks off into contemplation, and Keith thinks of just how long Shiro has abandoned home for. A month? More?

"I'm sure your mother only cares about seeing you return safe."

"I know. I know." Shiro tugs at his hair, reaches a hand up to scratch before realising the fingertips are stiff metal. “But I'm not sure how she's managed the farm ... I've helped her my whole life, and my father's –” 

He breaks off, swallowing. 

_Just like mine,_ Keith thinks, before beating himself up for whatever twisted hopeful spark had risen up in him.

"You don't have to talk about him. If you don't want to."

Shiro makes an incoherent noise. "Mm. He's been gone a long time. Nothing to get worked up about. And as I was saying ... she's strong. Even alone."

The sentiment echoes in Keith's head. 

Shiro splays his prosthetic out before him, catching Keith’s attention. “Do you think –” he begins, “she’ll be okay with this?” Shiro stares past his hand, and it sounds like he’s referring to _everything_. 

“She’s your mother.” 

And that ends the conversation, even though Keith can still hear the gears whirring turmoiled in Shiro’s brain. 

Keith’s own mind sifts through his own fading anger at the Galra, the weariness of decades passing in a heartbeat, and finally settles on the anonymous sailors busy around them. Surely, their lives are a simpler monotony, anchored to a warm bed they call home. The men mill around, distracting him for a while.

They raise anchor eventually, sails billowing and the endless ocean before them their next destination.

\-----

“What do you remember … about being a dragon?” Shiro’s expression is open and inquisitive, his voice tentative enough to border on respectful.

“It was okay.” Keith tilts his head in thought. “Monotonous. It’s quiet in the middle of nowhere.”

“No one to interrupt your afternoon naps?” Shiro grins guiltily.

“Just a few.” Never anyone important, though. “It was easy to scare them away.” Keith returns Shiro’s smile, a sly edge to the curve of his mouth.

Undeterred, Shiro continues. “Breathing fire? Pulling a nasty face?”

Keith can almost smell the hot lick of flames under his nose. “More like squashing them the moment they come near me. But fire, too.”

Shiro looks impressed. “How did the fire work?”

Sucking in a salty breath of air, Keith puffs his chest out to blow an impressive whoosh of air from his nostrils. He sputters as Shiro chokes on a laugh. “Got it?”

Shiro snorts. “Perfectly.”

Taken aback by his own sudden enthusiasm, Keith forgets the conversation in favour of sniffling embarrassedly. His nose tingles.

Shiro takes his hesitation in stride. “Then – why did Haggar curse you to be a dragon? Why not an earthworm; a worm can’t breathe fire and scorch her to bits.”

Why hadn’t he retaliated, now that Shiro mentions it? …Because of the sudden unbalanced tumble into the air, the pain lancing into his body (Haggar’s work, he knows), and the animalistic instinct to _flee_.

“Maybe so she could wreak havoc on innocent people. A worm, maybe, if she wanted to kill me immediately, but this was probably the more entertaining option.” 

A conflicted expression flashes over Shiro’s face, and Keith feels a sudden satisfaction. Good that he’s finally accepted Haggar for the threat that she is – _was_.

“She decided your fate, simply because it was _entertaining_?” Shiro asks in offended disbelief, and Keith offers a lopsided nod.

“It’s over now, anyway. And it’s been years, I – I don’t really remember much.” Keith admits, thinking of green that blurs into monotony and damp caves that reek of loneliness. “A dragon’s brain isn’t that intelligent.”

It all comes back to him in a rush now – of the urges to eat, drink, thrash his tail. To sleep, to stretch his wings, to chase after baser instincts. The first moment of clarity he remembers is waking up to a room full of humans.

Shiro makes a face, but stays blessedly silent. 

At least, until Keith nudges into his side while stretching and he looks over in amusement. Keith ignores him in his quest to seek out the nearest source of warmth.

“Was it – lonely. Before – ?”

Keith looks at him in confusion. “Why?”

“No, nothing.” Shiro mumbles. 

His frame soon settles, and so does Keith beside him. Silence eases in thick and undisturbed as Keith sifts through the muddled expanse of his mind. He blurts the first thing he can think of, startling both of them.

“Why aren’t you dead?”

“I –” Shiro jerks to look at him.

“Why didn’t the quintessence kill you?” Keith tries again.

He still can’t figure out how Shiro could have shown up all those weeks ago, hand alight with murderous intent. (And would he rather that Shiro had collapsed within seconds of touching the quintessence?)

“I don’t know.”

Keith studies Shiro’s open face and swallows down the bitter taste in his mouth. They’re here now, Shiro’s alive, and Keith should be grateful more than not that the next millennium isn’t spent inside an animal’s mind.

“Maybe you can –” Shiro continues lightly, oblivious to Keith’s inner turmoil, “find answers from the Galra you were looking for?”

Keith’s already found her. And suitably disposed of her body. The action was a cathartic severance of the Galra from his past and present, even if he’d promised Shiro (and himself) something _more_. Something more morally right than he could ever sway himself into doing.

“Maybe.” Keith evades. “Not yet. I have to –”

See Shiro to his home? Dutifully follow him like a servant?

“Think.” He decides, eventually. “Think about what’s next.”

“Of course.” Shiro radiates reassuring acceptance. “You can stay for as long as you need.”

As if he needs anything anymore, after being torn from his adolescence and returned after fifty unpleasant years. What ambition he’d had before is a long-forgotten instinct, anyway. Shaking himself out of a web of half-remembered Galra life, Keith turns to Shiro.

“And you? Farming – for the rest of your life?” 

Shiro raises a brow at his sneering tone. “Probably. You’ll have to find someone else to aid you on your Galra-killing sprees.”

“Hn.” 

With a conflicted sound, Keith ends the conversation. The Galra are nothing to do with him now, nor are they his everything. Keith thinks of the small child-sized hole, tinged with the purple of quintessence, that he’d abandoned long ago. The current ditch he’s dug for himself is a little more welcoming, even if adrift. 

He clings onto Shiro and doesn’t let go.

\-----

The ship pulls in to the mainland after several days of intermittent conversations and evasive answers – fewer, when Keith realises there’s no malicious intent behind Shiro’s questions. His hazy, bittersweet childhood memories slip out through careful bites of food and drink, Keith nodding along as Shiro returns his past in kind.

He sits upright when Shiro moves on to the topic of his pet cat. “Sven? What kind of a name is Sven –”

“A good name, for a good cat. I should … probably adopt a new one. My mum would like that.” Shiro stares off, momentarily distracted.

“You should.” 

“They'll be a good excuse for you to visit in the future,” Shiro offers him a covert smile and Keith reddens.

In lieu of his silence (awkward, throat-clearing), Shiro continues, “And what were we going to tell my mother, again? The truth, or – ?”

If Keith's memory of her reaction to Shiro's arm is correct, he supposes they'll have to edit the truth a little. 

“Enough to explain your new arm? And tell her I –” And he's clung to Shiro like a barnacle why? “I followed you to investigate the boulder.” 

“Of course! To think of it, I don't know what happened afterwards ...”

It would've vanished, of course. Raw quintessence corrupts everything it touches, vaporising into particles and leaving behind no trace. 

Keith shakes his head of the memories, focusing on the curious tilt to Shiro’s head.

“Hm – it wasn’t far from my house. It won’t take you long to check it out; and then you can … think, was it?”

He nods.

The journey to Shiro’s house precedes a day and a night of packing, Keith helping with the tasks Shiro can't do one-armed. The first time he tried to heft something into both arms, the pressure on his prosthetic had resulted in a lot of cursing and dropped items.

"Don't push yourself," Keith chastises. Narrowing his eyes but offering no other complaint, Shiro quietly lets his arm hang limp. 

"Home's half a day away,” Shiro exhales, settling on his bed when they’ve done what they can, “If we leave tomorrow morning we'll get there in the afternoon."

"Okay."

The bed brings back memories as Keith shuffles to get comfortable, of luxurious lethargy and twinging pains. To be fair, he had been spoiled silly for those first days – and now, to have to take care of Shiro in the same way. (Keith spots the other man itching at his stump and is at his side in a flash. Shiro looks at him, betrayed.)

And he feels spoiled, now, closing his eyes to the sound of rhythmic breathing.

\-----

Shiro’s mother looks as kind as her son, and a lot shorter. She disappears in a hug, Shiro double her size.

Keith stands at a wary distance, averting his eyes from the emotional reunion happening in front of him and the tearful, private mutterings. Their frenzied whispers are swept away by the wind.

Trying not to draw attention to himself, Keith stays still. He doesn’t expect the pair of them to look up and approach him, Shiro’s mother addressing him before he can blend into the fields.

“Hello, you must be –”

“– Keith,” Shiro supplies, when Keith stutters on a reply. He rubs his throat, massaging out the reticence.

“Thank you for helping my son, Keith.” Her genuine gratefulness takes him aback. “I’m Takashi’s mother; you can call me Akie.”

Keith stammers on a reply as she ushers the both on them inside. _Takashi_. He’s still mulling over the syllables of Shiro’s actual name when the door closes behind them with a neat ‘snick,’ pulling him from his thoughts.

Shiro’s hand is warm where it tugs at the pack in his grip. “Here, let’s set this down first.”

“Y-Yeah.”

She’s everything Keith expects from a mother and more, sitting them down for a meal immediately and asking about the past weeks. Her worried expression nearly fools Keith into thinking she cares for both of them, like a family of three. As though he’s going to stick around for a long time.

“Keith, you don’t mind sleeping on the floor for now? I’ll find a bed for you immediately.” She pulls him from his thoughts.

“Wait, I –” Don’t need to be treated like this. “I don’t need –”

Luckily, Shiro speaks up from opposite him. “It’s fine, Ma – we’ll sort it out ourselves. You shouldn’t have to stress.”

“I’m not stressing – I’m just doing my part,” she snaps good-naturedly, clucking at Shiro when he tries to help clean up after dinner. “Why don’t you go find something to do? Or show Keith around?”

She ushers both of them out of the room. With a crooked smile on his face, Shiro turns to Keith. “So – uh – do you want to look around? There’s not much to the house – everything’s outside.”

The sun is setting outside, shadows creeping into the tired lines of Shiro’s face. “We don’t have to. I know you need rest.”

Keith isn't an expert on prosthetics or such serious wounds, but it’s obvious that Shiro's arm is swelling under the metal band of his fake hand. Shiro visibly bites back a wince for the third time, and Keith sighs.

"Come on. We've had a long day, and you should take that off before you hurt yourself."

Shiro looks thoughtful. "I - I suppose. We can stay in my bedroom for now, and look around the place later."

Keith takes gentle hold of his metal fingers and follows him towards an anonymous door, one of few in their tiny home. It's nothing grand like he's seen in his Galra times, but equipped enough for a family of two. 

Keith digs his bare toes into the straw matting. "It's cosy. I like it."

“I do too.” Shiro looks wistful. “I should've never left, to be honest.”

His past guilt and terror go unspoken, but Keith understands the sentiment. Shiro shoulders his way into his room, favouring his human hand, to reveal a sparsely-decorated room, bed tidied and belongings squirreled away into neat piles.

"She - My mother - she must have tidied up after me."

It looks like a room in mourning, but Keith doesn't say a thing. "That's thoughtful of her."

"Mm."

They've shared beds a few times (more than a few, if Keith is honest with himself) in the past weeks, on structures smaller and more rickety than the wooden frame before them, but for some reason a thread of trepidation creeps into his throat.

“Do you want to –”   
“Is there enough –”

They both pause for long enough to make eye contact.

“ – share?”  
“ – space?”

Shiro breaks the awkward silence first, cracking a grin. "Of course there's enough space, but do you want to -"

"Y-Yeah. Okay." Keith sits down tentatively. "Is your mother okay with that?"

"It's none of her business."

_Right._ She’s nothing like the Galra housekeepers in the school he attended, Keith reminds himself, who would routinely check their rooms for anything untoward. "Okay."

With bellies full, sleep is all the more tempting. Keith wrenches his eyelids open with an effort. “Let's get that thing off you – you heard Hunk, you can't be wearing that for the whole day if you're just recovering.”

Shiro grunts beside him, slinging a tired arm over shuttered eyes.

"Shiro!"

"Okay, okay." 

The man obediently holds out his arm, wincing a little as Keith undoes the straps and slowly wriggles the metal structure off his stump. It's a tight fit, and Keith can't imagine just how painful the experience is. Shiro releases a tortured breath once it's off, daring to peer at his soiled bandages. 

"Hah - change them for me, Keith?" 

Keith responds swiftly. "Of course I will."

"Thanks." He huffs another half-laugh. "Guess it's fine that I'm missing an arm if I've got you."

"I'm not your servant," Keith snorts, but he can’t help but smile. He's got a reason to stay, now. The tinge of pink on his cheeks is in no way a result of Shiro's weary tones.

"'Course not." Shiro mumbles, still half-asleep on the bed. If Keith stays silent for a second, the man is probably going to fall asleep, grimy clothes and all.

Keith tugs at a deadened arm. "Shiro, get up. It's barely an hour into the evening, and you're already falling asleep?"

"Mm." A huffed affirmative leaks from Shiro's lips.

Keith rolls his eyes. He'll change the bandages first, he supposes, pulling the limp arm into his lap. But the rest, Shiro can worry about once he wakes.

The stump is painful to look at after a few days of recovery, but already Keith can see the welcome result of the assorted potions. Raw-red flesh has disappeared under a stitching of new skin and the wrinkled mouth of the closed wound clotted and dried. The initial swelling has gone down, too, and Keith lightly presses cool fingers to the puffy-looking skin around his injury.

Shiro doesn't bat an eyelid.

“Does it hurt?”

His sleepy noise isn’t really an answer.

It’s obvious the journey has taken a toll on both of them, Shiro especially, and Keith brushes aside the tempting call of exhaustion to rid them of their dirt and grime. Shiro stirs at the brush of damp cloth against his skin, still looking dead to the world.

"If you're going to sleep, then what do I do?" Keith mutters to himself, peering around at the foreign space he’s in. He'd spotted Shiro's mother - Akie, he remembers - relaxing in front of the fireplace, and can't find it in himself to join her. Decades of living out in a field has done little for his social skills, and it's easier to resort to the bestial instincts of tidying up their shared nest - _bed_ \- and Shiro himself. 

Sighing, Keith gently sits beside Shiro's slumbering form. It feels like just yesterday that his only cares were snapping animals into his jaws and curling up on the bed of grass he'd arranged for himself within the cave he called home. And now, he has to worry about what to do with his remaining decades and how to survive in this fragile human body without magic by his side.

Well, if Shiro survived a quintessence infection, maybe there's still some hope for him.

\-----

The next morning sees Keith waking to the cry of farm animals and to Shiro's peaceful breathing.

"Shiro?" Keith nudges the hard line of the back facing him and gets little response. "Are you going to wake up?"

Apparently, the answer is no. Tamping down his irrational panic, Keith checks to find Shiro breathing. Relieved, he heads for the main room himself, to leave Shiro to sleep.

The morning sun pierces sharp through the windows, a chill tinting the edges of the room despite the fireplace Shiro's mother is tending to. She turns towards him as he announces his presence with a quiet cough. In the morning light, the soft edges of her face show a clear resemblance to Shiro’s features.

He coughs again, feeling awkward.

“Good morning, Keith.”

“Morning.”

“Is Takashi not up?”

The unfamiliar name still puts him off, and briefly Keith wonders why Shiro had never mentioned his actual name.

“No.”

Akie nods, understanding creasing her face. “Of course. Just make sure to tell him there's food waiting for him – I'll be outside. Is bread is okay?” She nods at the wooden table across the room from them. A plate stacked with small golden-brown rolls marks a simple centrepiece.

"Yes, thank you." Keith nods his gratitude, sitting down beside the window and watching as she dons a coat and disappears outside. 

The bread is soft beneath his fingers. 

He should've offered to help, probably, but now that she's already gone, Keith isn't sure what to do. The yap of a nearby dog startles him out of reverie, and shivering a little, Keith takes another roll and moves closer to fireplace.

He licks final crumbs off his fingertips with a decisive swipe and turns to look at the low doorway he'd come through. No Shiro yet.

As it turns out, Shiro is still curled underneath warm blankets, looking without a care in the world.

"Shiro," Keith hisses, nudging at his arm a little, and he finally stirs.

"Hrm?"

"There's breakfast waiting. And your mother went outside."

“Oh, uh –” Shiro breaks off into a gaping yawn, “th-that means I should help her. Mm."

“What should I do?”

Shiro gets to shaky feet. “Weren’t you going to investigate the boulder? In the forest.”

Keith nods slowly.

\-----

There’s something different about eating food his mother had prepared for him, and the now-cold bread is tastier than anything he’d scraped together for himself in the past weeks. Shiro takes his time to chew each mouthful under Keith’s watchful gaze.

“Did you – ?” He quirks a brow at Keith’s silence.

“I ate.”

He obviously has, when Shiro’s woken so late. He can hear the animals outside, and visualise all the chores his mother must be doing. Hastened, he gobbles down the rest of his meal, intent on taking back his share of the work – she’s suffered enough, already.

“Where’re you going?” Keith’s questioning tone stops him in his tracks.

“Out.” Shiro downs the last of the water in his cup and nods towards the door.

“Your prosthetic?”

Right. Startling his mother with his stump of a right arm isn’t the politest way to start the morning. Helpful as ever, Keith leads the way to his (their?) room, positioning the prosthetic as Shiro holds his arm still.

Evidently, he hasn’t fully healed, and Shiro swallows a pained whine when metal slides jerkily over his bandaged flesh. Pain throbs in his cut nerve endings, even after Keith secures the strap over his shoulder and removes his hands.

“Okay?” 

Shiro huffs through gritted teeth. “Fine.”

Keith looks unamused. “No you aren’t. Can you even move that arm without it hurting?”

“It’s fine, trust me. I’ll get used to it soon.” Shiro brushes off Keith’s concerns, but the man follows him like a shadow anyway.

… He can’t help but bristle when Keith openly smirks at his mother’s brazen refusal. “Go rest! Your friend told me you’re still injured, and I’m not letting you near any tools until that arm has fully healed.” And with that, she turns back to the clamouring chickens, ignoring Shiro’s protests.

“I can feed the animals with one hand!”

“Takashi, go rest! I can handle another day by myself. Just having you back is enough; you don’t need to tire yourself out while you’re still recovering.”

Keith turns his smirk on him.

“What am I supposed to do now?” Shiro complains.

“Stay inside all day? I’ll come visit you, don’t worry.”

Shiro resigns himself to his fate, nodding a dismissive goodbye as Keith dashes off for the forest. The first moment he gets alone, his fingers are scrambling to remove the prosthetic, easing the tight band of metal off his injury with a stretched-out exhale. Maybe there was some truth to what Keith and his mother were saying, but being reduced to an invalid still takes getting used to. Sighing, Shiro settles on an empty chair and gazes around at the rooms he’s grown up in.


	5. Epilogue

Keith never did find anything in the forest, and Shiro recovered quickly enough that soon nothing remained of the Galra, except for a scarred patch of skin on the end of his arm and the memories attached. 

“I don’t – _have_ to go after them,” Keith mutters one day, more to himself than anything, and that’s it. They come to a silent consensus to never bring up the Galra again, not when Shiro’s arm twinges with phantom pain, or when Keith starts doubting the months he’s whiling away on the farm.

The house had been long accustomed to just the pair of them – Shiro and his mother, but Keith slots in like a puzzle piece: the second child his mother never had, another pair of hands to tend to the farm, and the friend and companion Shiro didn’t realise he’d needed.

“If you keep this up, Ma’s going to adopt you into the family,” Shiro jokes one day, when the two of them are tending to sheep, Keith hard at work counting each fluffy head and Shiro … supervising.

Keith pauses. “And we don’t want that?” Confusion lingers long enough on his face that Shiro wonders if he’s been misreading things.

“Well … I don’t think many brothers sleep in the same bed.” The spare mat laid beside Shiro’s bed _was_ for Keith, originally. Neither of them have touched it.

“How could I wake you from your nightmares otherwise?” Keith asks pointedly. “It’s a good arrangement.”

“Well –” The nightmares aren’t always preserved in his mind in crystal clarity, but the bitter curl of nausea and the echoes of horror always linger. He hasn’t woken himself up screaming yet – Keith is always the first thing he hears, muttering his name and _wake up, you’re safe, you’re here_. “Of course it is,” Shiro decides.

“That’s good. Problem solved.” Keith dismissively turns back to the impatient animal before him, letting her through the gate.

And, problem solved it is, Shiro supposes, even if Keith’s clinical tone strikes a nerve.

“So –” He attempts, near-faltering, “That’s why you’ve been sneaking into my bed all this time?”

“Yes.”

Shiro walks away when it becomes obvious Keith has nothing more to say. It’s not as if they needed two people to mind the sheep, anyway.

Regardless, he ends up with an armful of sleepy Keith late in the evening. Shiro noses at his forehead, arms instinctively circling around his thin shoulders and frowning when Keith mumbles at him.

“S’not … nigh’mares.”

“Hm?”

Keith mumbles unintelligibly, and Shiro can’t help but relax at the soothing vibration of words against his chest.

“What’s the matter?”

“S’not just – _nightmares_ ,” Keith tries again. “I like sleepin’ here. Even when no – no nigh’mares.”

_Oh._ “Oh,” Shiro repeats, audibly. “That’s good to hear.”

“Hm.” He doesn’t explain any further, nor does Shiro prod, allowing Keith to tip over the precipice of unconsciousness.

“Morning,” Shiro casually directs towards the only visible part of Keith – his messy crown of hair. He drags the curtains open, letting cool sheets of light illuminate the lump in his bed.

“Hmm.” Keith stirs grumpily.

“So you enjoy it here, do you?” Shiro asks once Keith is sitting blearily upright and rubbng at crusted eyes.

“Wha –?”

“Sleeping here? Thought you said that last night.”

Keith perks up, visibly waking himself up with a stern shake of the head. “Huh?” Shiro watches the words quickly catch up and suffuse his cheeks pink.

“It – It’s comfortable.”

“Yeah?” 

Keith is dismissive in his reply. “Yeah.”

\-----

Keith is, Shiro observes, somewhat like a cat, in his wary nature and tendency to sleep where it’s most _comfortable_. The dull weight on his shoulder signals Keith has probably fallen asleep yet again, this time sat in the shade of one of the trees bordering their property. The sheep are just as lazy in front of them, and Shiro watches as their shadows slowly elongate – still time to rest, but only for a little longer.

“Keith –” His left arm’s starting to numb. The other man is silent, annoyingly so. Shiro is giving up on ever regaining movement in his healthy arm when Keith finally stirs, mumbling to himself.

“Mh – don’t go. Don’t like the bed empty…”

“Like it when I’m here?” Shiro teases, and to his surprise, Keith nods into the crook of his shoulder.

“Hmm…”

Unable to help himself, Shiro ducks to press a light kiss to Keith’s forehead. Soft, like the messy fringe he brushes aside.

“Wha –”

“Go back to sleep, Keith,” Shiro mutters, but he’s already opened his eyes. Abashed, Shiro tries to lean away, a firm hand on his arm stopping him.

“Stop moving!” Keith gripes, squirming back into place. “And what was that?” 

Shiro’s heart skips a beat. “What was what?”

“The …” He gestures at his forehead, nose scrunched and violet eyes dark with confusion.

Shiro’s heart resumes pounding, now at twice the usual rate. His tongue sits heavy and dry. “Uh –”

Keith sits up, suddenly a lot more awake than he was previously. Under his burning stare, a weaker man would crumble to ash – Shiro swallows, shaking.

“What was that?” He repeats again, sharper. And again, Shiro fumbles to come up with a witty excuse. Or any excuse at all. 

Shiro watches in slow motion as Keith leans further into his space, too focused on the tip of his wet tongue darting out of sight to hear his next words.

“Did you mean to do _this?_ ”

The press of chapped lips to his own ripples a vacuum through his mind.

**Author's Note:**

> Welp. There it is.


End file.
